


Running with the Wolves

by Rose_SK



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Bard Jaskier | Dandelion, Fairy Tale Elements, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Werewolf Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Werewolf Mates, Wolf Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Wolf Pack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:22:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23706067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_SK/pseuds/Rose_SK
Summary: Jaskier had heard the rumours about shapeshifting witchers, but the bard had always dismissed them as old wives’ tales. They were the kind of stories mothers told their children to stop them from wandering into the woods on their own after sundown. Shapeshifters did not exist, plain and simple. Jaskier was above such superstitions.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 76
Kudos: 522





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovely people! I am back with a longer project (most likely 13 chapters long) and I can't wait to share this idea with you. I hope everyone is keeping safe in these uncertain times. I, for one, am nearly done with my undergraduate dissertation and for once the plot bunnies did not pick the worst time in the world to assault my mind with fresh Geraskier ideas. This fic started out as a oneshot, which I then split into two parts and would you look at that, I have outlined a slow-burn fic over 10 chapters long. Oops.
> 
> Enjoy this first chapter and I will soon get working on the next ones. The story is fully outlined, just need to sit my ass down an write them. I have a pretty good idea where this is going, though. So sit back, relax and enjoy. 
> 
> xxx

_Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, in a place inaccessible to mere mortals such as ourselves, lived the famous witchers of Kaer Morhen. Mutants, people called them, taken in at a tender age and trained into the deadliest weapons the Continent had ever seen. The witchers of Kaer Morhen were bred with one aim: create a race powerful enough to protect the nations of the Continent against the most horrific monsters that loomed in the darkest corners of the world. However, the other races began to worry that the witchers would one day turn against them. Fearful of the mutants turning rogue, an Alliance was formed between the rulers of the most influential kingdoms of the Continent to combat this new race of superhumans threatening the peace in all the lands. The armies of Nilfgaard, Redania, and Cintra, joined arms and attacked the keep of Kaer Morhen. This was the last time that the nations of the Continent had stood united against a common enemy rather than being at each other’s throats. Outnumbered and taken by surprise, many witchers and young students lost their lives that day. Satisfied with the bloodshed, the armies of the Continent retreated never to be seen in these parts again. Unfortunately for them, the armies of the Alliance had failed to kill all the witchers. Those who survived mourned the loss of their brethren. They swore to never witness such a massacre again and to avenge the fallen by taking the life of whoever dared venture near the keep. The witchers renounced their duty as protectors of the people in favour of becoming the safekeepers of Kaer Morhen._

_Nobody knows what became of the surviving witchers, but some claim –_

“’l’ll tell ye what became o’ em, bard,” a booming voice interrupted Jaskier’s tale. He traced the voice back to a middle-aged balding man sitting at the bar, his pudgy hand clutching a tankard of ale and a haunted look reflected in his glassy eyes testifying of years of chronic alcoholism. “Shapeshifters, they became… massive wolves now roam the valley o’ Kaer Morhen. Gobble up anyone who shows ‘is face near the keep…”

Jaskier refrained from rolling his eyes at the patron’s comment. He had heard the rumours about shapeshifting witchers, but Jaskier had always dismissed them as old wives’ tales. They were the kind of stories mothers told their children to stop them from wandering into the woods on their own after sundown. Shapeshifters did not exist, plain and simple. Jaskier was above such superstitions.

“As I was saying, some claim that the witchers still live in Kaer Morhen, keeping to themselves and occasionally wandering out to slay monsters in the area. Others – “

“Did ye not hear me, bard?” the patron interrupted Jaskier a second time, “they ain’t witchers no more. Beasts they’ve become, more freakish still than their mutated human forms. Seen one wi’ me own eyes.”

“Of course you have, good sir. Although I do wonder, was that before or after the third bottle of whiskey?” Jaskier jested, earning himself drunken laughter from the crowd which brought a pleased smile to his face.

“The man’s right, that he is,” another patron, younger and in much better shape, shouted in defence of the first man, “everyone knows that wolves roam the parts of Kaer Morhen.”

The patron carried on his tale of shapeshifting wolves and to Jaskier’s dismay, the crowd hung to his every word. The bard could have argued with the two men, but he did not see the point in doing so. Jaskier would rather save his breath on something more useful. Storytelling paid well enough, and until Jaskier managed to find inspiration for his next ballad, it would have to do. Hopefully he would not have to wait much longer for inspiration to hit him.

“You don’t believe them,” a voice startled Jaskier out of his reverie, “I can tell. I can see it in your eyes.”

The voice belonged to an old and frail-looking woman who was supporting her hunched form somewhat precariously on a wooden stick the size of a thick tree branch. She smiled a toothless smile at Jaskier, who despite his initial surprise had managed to compose himself enough to offer a polite smile in return.

“Do you?” he asked her, trying not to sound condescending as he addressed the elderly woman.

“Why shouldn’t I believe them? I am willing to believe your tale about witchers. If sorcerers exist, it seems perfectly plausible to me that they can use their magic to shapeshift.”

“Only that sorcerers don’t exist, and magic is a relic of the past. Everyone knows that Nilfgaard has successfully eradicated all forms of magic. Witchers are nothing but legendary characters from an old world.”

Jaskier noticed the woman’s smile grow wider at his words. She straightened up as much as her hunched back allowed and locked her milky eyes with Jaskier’s, seemingly staring straight into his soul despite her evident blindness. Jaskier felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

“Dear boy, this is not how magic works. You can’t eradicate it in the same way Nilfgaard has destroyed everything else in their path. Eradicating magic is like trying to move sand, grain by grain, from one beach to another. You cannot possibly gather all of it, even with the most advanced tools. Sooner or later, one grain will escape you. Such is the way of magic.”

Jaskier scanned the bar nervously, hoping no one was listening to the conversation. Mentioning sorcery or speaking of Nilgaard in derogatory terms was considered the highest form of treachery, and as such, was punishable by death. Jaskier valued his life dearly and did not want to be seen talking to the wrong person. Sensing his unease, the old woman dropped her voice to barely above a whisper.

“I enjoyed your story, bard. I don’t have much coin to my name, but I do have this.” The woman fished a small vial out of her pockets, her gnarly fingers clutching onto it as if she were holding the world’s most precious elixir in her hands. Her other hand grabbed Jaskier’s so she could place the vial in the palm of his hand. She folded his fingers over the vial, ensuring he was holding it securely.

“What… what is this?” Jaskier enquired curiously.

“A special kind of medicine that heals most wounds. It is not much, but you never know when you might need it. You’ll be glad to have it when the time comes.”

Jaskier would have honestly preferred coin, but he had a bad habit of getting himself into peculiar situations and his clumsiness often resulted in one too many bruises. Medicine was not a cheap ware and healers were rarely honest with their pricing. If anything, Jaskier could sell the medicine at the market for a fair sum which he could then spend on clothes, a nice hot meal or a night at a brothel. Jaskier discreetly dropped the vial in his pocket, making sure no one had spotted him doing so. The last thing he needed was to be mugged as soon as he left the tavern. The woman smiled softly at him, her eyes twitching almost as if she was mapping his face. Which, of course, could not possibly be the case. The woman was clearly blind.

“Thank you for your generosity, Lady…?” Jaskier left the end of his sentence hanging in the air, hopeful that the old woman would fill in the blank for him. Instead, she merely shook her head and left the tavern through the main entrance without another word. Jaskier did not know what to make of that other than finding her behaviour strangely evasive.

“I hope you took notes, bard,” the owner of the tavern shouted at him from the bar, “might wanna add shapeshiftin’ wolves to your story. Then people might throw some coin your way.”

“I have a better idea,” the first patron said as he rose to his feet and took several unsteady steps towards Jaskier. His breath stank of cheap ale and rotting teeth, but Jaskier was far too polite to pull a face at the stench. The man poked the bard’s chest with his fat finger as he slurred his next words. “I’ll pay you a thousand crowns if you travel to the Cursed Valley and live to tell the tale.”

The man’s proposal was met by enthusiastic shouts from the other intoxicated patrons.

“A thousand crowns? For travelling to Kaer Morhen and back?” Jaskier confirmed, pleased when the man’s smile vanished from his face at his nonchalant attitude, “How do I know you have that kind of wealth to spare in this shithole?”

“Oh trust me bard, everyone will pitch in,” the man with the bad breath assured him, but his face grew dead serious as he spoke his next words, “You are a fool for considering the journey. Nobody will have to worry about spending a penny. You’ll die from frostbite before you even reach the keep.”

“If I don’t come back, you’ll have your proof that the giant wolves are not legends. If I come back, then trust me my friend, you’ll never hear the end of it. I shall go to Kaer Morhen and prove to you people once and for all that shapeshifting witchers are a fantasy from the past. I’ll make sure to draw a wonderfully scenic sketch of the Kaer Morhen ruins as proof. And then, of course, I’ll take my thousand crowns from you and disappear from this village forever. Sound like a plan?”

Jaskier could feel the tension rise in the room and the overly-confident patron suddenly seemed to second guess his decision. He extended his hand and waited patiently for the patron to shake it. The glassy eyes stared at Jaskier’s face in a calculating manner as he tried to guess whether the bard was bluffing. After a short silence, the patron shook Jaskier’s hand to the cheers of the crowd. This would be a piece of cake. All Jaskier had to do was disappear for several days, draw a sketch of castle ruins and return to the inn to claim his reward. No one would follow him to Kaer Morhen willingly, so they had no way to prove that he was lying to them. There was no downfall to this plan.

OoO

When Jaskier left the tavern, he felt someone pull him back by the arm and the bard realised with horror that he was unable to escape their iron grip. He turned to face his attacker only to find himself standing before the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was shorter than him but still tall for a woman. Her fiery-red hair reached her lower back and green eyes that could enchant any man, including Jaskier, stared back at him intently. The woman shot him a knowing smile that seemed all too familiar.

“Good afternoon, miss, how may I be of assis –“

“You have no intention of going to Kaer Morhen. Why not?” the woman asked him. She must have been inside the tavern mere minutes ago and followed him out, or how else would she know about his wager with the patron? Jaskier wondered how he could have possibly overlooked such a beautiful creature, he who was usually so good at spotting them. Perhaps they had been so loud that their conversation could be heard from outside, but even so, how would she have known who to intercept?

“I beg your – “

“A thousand crowns is a fair sum, yet I can sense that you have no intention of travelling to Kaer Morhen. My guess is that you want to take advantage of the villagers’ naïve superstitions by fooling them into thinking that you went, reap the rewards and disappear never to return. Which begs the question, why not simply go to Kaer Morhen?”

Jaskier did not appreciate the woman’s questioning, and much less the fact that she had read his intentions so plainly and with such ease. If she had figured out his plan in under two minutes, the patrons of the tavern might have seen through his façade, too. Now the villagers may not have much influence in high places, but nearly all of them possessed pitchforks and torches, and Jaskier did not really find out how much damage those could do in the hand of an angry defrauded mob.

“I don’t have to travel to Kaer Morhen to know that I’m right. Magic does not exist,” Jaskier maintained stubbornly, which earned him a resigned sigh from the red-haired woman.

“They have always baffled me, you know? Those people who stare right at the truth, yet still refuse to acknowledge it.”

“What do you mean?” Jaskier asked, unsure whether he was ready for the answer. The woman stared at him intently as if debating her next move carefully. Her green eyes scanned the area for any unwanted witnesses before she grabbed Jaskier by the arm once more and lead him away from the tavern.

“Not here, it’s too risky,” was the only explanation she provided as she guided Jaskier out of the village and into the nearby woods. The bard wondered if she was planning on killing him for his coin. At least, he tried to console himself, he would die at the hands of a beautiful woman which admittedly could class as a poetic death. The woman stopped abruptly in the middle of the forest and turned to face Jaskier in all her glory. She wordlessly put some distance between herself and the bard by stepping back from him slowly, almost as if she were trying not to startle a terrified animal. Jaskier was too mesmerised by the way her body seemed to float away from him that the thought of running did not even cross his mind. His jaw dropped when he noticed a purple hue surround the beautiful woman, wrapping itself around her in wisps of smoke until it faded and revealed the distinctive hunched back belonging to the old woman from the tavern. Jaskier felt his heart skip and drop to his stomach at the sight.

At first, he was surprised.

Then surprise gave way to baffled confusion.

Until his confusion turned to _fear_.

“You… you’re a…”

“Sorceress,” the old woman provided before changing back into the beautiful red-haired woman once again, “a wielder of magic, capable of shapeshifting amongst other very useful things. I know what you’re thinking, bard. You’re scared and confused, and that’s understandable. But you needed to see this. You needed to see it to believe it.”

Jaskier’s mind was racing as he tried to wrap his head around what he had just witnessed. This woman before him had managed to change her appearance within seconds by using magic. It did not make any sense. Nilfgaard had destroyed every magical being, artefact and grimoires they managed to find. They had done so leaving behind bloodbaths, destruction and ruins. Jaskier had learned all about the Great Cleansing as a boy, and later at Oxenfurt. Kaer Morhen had been one stage of the Great Cleansing, but many more places had suffered the same fate. Aretuza was destroyed several weeks later, although the mages had been expecting the armies and had fought more viciously against the invader. Some even believed that Nilfgaard had convinced sorceresses to turn against their own kind, only to be betrayed and killed once the massacre was over. Over a hundred years ago, Nilfgaard had managed to destroy every remnants of magic that was left in the Continent. No region had been overlooked, no magic-wielding creature spared. What Jaskier had just witnessed this woman do did not make any sense.

If this woman could still wield magic, what was to say that others could not?

Perhaps the patrons at the tavern had been right.

Perhaps magic was not dead, but merely practiced in secret to avoid repercussion. Magic-wielders most likely went into hiding to avoid the wrath of Nilfgaard.

And what better way to hide than to do so in plain sight by changing one’s appearance? In the same way this beautiful woman had turned into an old hag, powerful witchers could have turned into ferocious wolves to throw Nilfgaard off their scent.

_Melitele be damned._

“This is… why? Why show me this? Aren’t you worried I’ll tell someone?” The sorceress shook her head, that knowing smile creeping back onto her lovely features. “Why not?”

“Do you really want to take that risk? Chances are if you came into contact with a witch, Nilfgaard will kill you too. They can’t risk anyone revealing that magic is not, in fact, a relic of the past.” Jaskier could not argue with the sorceress as he desperately tried to wrap his head around this turn of events. The red-haired woman spoke again, her voice softer but her expression graver. “We are linked by destiny, Julian Alfred Pankratz. I do not expect you to understand, nor am I here to provide an explanation. All you need to know is that this meeting was written in the stars decades before your conception.”

“I… no, this… this is not possible. I must be dreaming,” Jaskier muttered to himself, pinching himself for good measure. He wanted to wake up, although this dream would inspire a great ballad no doubt. This could not be truly happening to him. None of this made any sense.

“You are not dreaming, Julian. My name is Visenna, and I have been looking for you for the best part of the last year. I have a request that only you can fulfil.”

Jaskier's fear merely intensified at the woman's - Visenna's - words. He could feel his heart race in his chest as she stepped closer to him, her body moving with such precision and grace that Jaskier was convinced she was trying her best to seduce him into getting him to do her will.

"What do you want me to do?"

And apparently, whatever tempting magic she was using was working. Judging by the pleased expression on Visenna's face, she was fully aware of the power she had over Jaskier in that instant. Once she was close enough, Visenna cupped Jaskier’s face with both hands and even if the bard wanted to shy away from her touch, he was rooted to the spot and mesmerised by her deep green eyes sparkling with mischief.

"I need you to go to Kaer Morhen. I am willing to pay you double of what the patron offered you. I will be in your debt, which is of course not negligible. I can make most of your wishes come true, one way or another."

As tempting as the offer was, Jaskier knew that fraternising with a sorceress could prove fatal if anyone ever found put. A fact she would undoubtedly be aware of, which made it really easy for her to break her end of the bargain. What was Jaskier to do if she did not keep true to her word? Legally speaking, he had no standing.

And the witch knew this, too.

"I'm not an adventurer, miss. I am but a bard. I'm afraid I won't be much use on the road, much less at night when bandits and wolves - actual non-shapeshifting wolves - come out to play. I'll have to give this opportunity a pass."

"You haven't even heard what I need you to do once in Kaer Morhen...," Visenna remarked, her tone calm and composed.

"I don't need to hear it. It's not an adventure for me. You'll have to find someone else."

Visenna was silent for a moment. Jaskier could have used this opportunity to break into a sprint to get the fuck away from Visenna as quickly as humanly possible. Yet, something about her eyes kept him rooted to the spot. There was wisdom in them, but something else also that Jaskier could not quite place. Perhaps hurt, or nostalgia, or boredom. She was making it very difficult for him to read her. Jaskier swallowed past the lump in his throat as Visenna pulled his face closer to hers. Her skin felt surprisingly soft against his cheek.

"It can't be anyone else, Julian. It has to be you."

These words were the last thing Jaskier heard before the world turned black.

OoO

When Jaskier woke up, his head was pounding and all the muscles in his body were aching. He tried to remember what could have possibly caused such a reaction from his body, but to no avail. The last thing he remembered was leaving the tavern after promising the patrons to return for the thousand crowns they had promised him if he successfully returned from Kaer Morhen. Jaskier could not remember much of what happened after that. The bard opened his eyes and blinked rapidly to adjust to the bright light. The sun was shining and warming his face, but also blinding him as he tried to sit upright. The bright beams did nothing to appease his sore head. Once Jaskier got used to the light, he observed his surroundings more closely and was surprised to find himself lying at the edge of a forest in a valley surrounded by mountains so high they disappeared into the clouds rolling over his head.

Jaskier could not remember drinking anything but ale at the tavern, but then he could not remember much apart from the wager he had made with the patrons. Perhaps he had gone back for a couple of drinks later that day. Clearly that time Jaskier had opted for the strongest drink in the fucking tavern. His mind could not fathom how he had managed to stray this far from the village. The warm sun was soon submerged by menacing dark clouds foreboding an oncoming storm.

_Fantastic._

Jaskier rose to his feet and took several seconds to find his balance as the world spun around him. Judging by the position of the sun, it was late morning. He had performed at the tavern in the late afternoon. Clearly the mountains had been closer than initially anticipated for there was no way Jaskier had been drunk enough as to wander for hours on end without any recollection of his travels. He must have passed out and slept until now. It was a miracle he was still alive. Plenty of creatures roam the forests of the Continent. Jaskier decided not to while on these thoughts too much as he set out to find the nearest village. Any village would do at this point although he would preferably like to find the one he had performed in to retrieve his lute and other belongings from the room he had rented for the night. Jaskier did not have to wait long before he heard the deep rumbling of thunder in the distance. Heavy raindrops fell from the sky and soaked Jaskier to the bone in mere minutes. The sun had completely disappeared as the world turned dark and the storm took over. Jaskier struggled to see the path he was on because of the heavy rain, and it was only when he tripped over a branch sticking out of the muddy ground that he realised he had wandered deeper into the forest.

_Shit._

He was not sure how far into the forest he had wandered, or more importantly which direction in. Panic took a hold of him as Jaskier scrambled to his feet and moaned at the sight of his expensive doublet covered in mud. There was no way he would get that stain out no matter how hard he scrubbed. That was one way to ruin a perfectly good doublet. Jaskier picked up the pace as he tried to find a way out of the heavy curtain of rain surrounding him. He panted heavily as he clumsily navigated the treacherous paths of the forest as well as he could. The occasional flashes of lightening followed by the booms of thunder only increased his anxiety levels. After what seemed like an eternity, Jaskier noticed the entrance to a cave carved out in the rocky mountain which would make an excellent shelter against the rain. That was all the encouragement Jaskier needed, and so he hurried inside the cave but made sure not to wander in too deep. He wrapped his arms around his body and shivered uncontrollably as his soaked clothes stuck stubbornly to his skin. If the creatures did not get to him first, he would probably die of hypothermia. Jaskier was so concerned with keeping himself warm that he did not notice the beast that was creeping up to him from behind. Only when his body was suddenly pushed to the hard ground with the force of a thousand men did Jaskier realise that he probably should have checked the area first before walking blindly into this cave.

"Oh boy.... Ooooooh boy."

The creature looming over him snarled and bared its teeth as drops of saliva dripped onto Jaskier's already soiled doublet. The first thing the bard noticed were the razor-sharp canines, the horrendous breath and two large paws pressing down on his chest. Only upon closer inspection did Jaskier realise that he had been tackled by a wolf. Not a traditional wolf, mind you. This one looked bigger, stronger and more aggressive than the wolves Jaskier was familiar with, which was saying something. A flash of lightening, and Jaskier noticed the yellow eyes and the long scar on the left side of the wolf's face. Another flash, and Jaskier could make out the colour of its coat: mostly white with streaks of silver. The bard figured that if he was to die here and then at the hand - or paws - of this beast, he might as well take a closer look at it. Not that the wolf’s appearance would matter much once it had feasted on Jaskier for supper and no one lived to tell the tale. Surprisingly, the creature yet had to attack.

"Easy... I'm not here to hurt you, I just wanted shelter from the rain. Please don't eat me..."

Jaskier knew the wolf could not understand a word he was saying, but it made the bard feel better to feel like he was stalling the creature's attack. It seemed to be working considering that the wolf stubbornly refrained from attacking him despite snarling viciously in warning. Jaskier avoided staring directly into the beast’s yellow eyes, showing submission in the hope it would be enough to convince the huge beast towering him that he was no threat.

“If I’d known that you were in here, I would not have come in trust me. You’re a biiiig, big boy… I swear I don’t want to hurt you. I… I’m lost. I don’t know how I got here, and I just need to – “

A loud high-pitched whine coming from the other end of the cave interrupted Jaskier’s nervous babbling. The wolf above him tensed at the sound and turned its massive head in the direction of the sound. Jaskier could faintly make out the shape of another, much smaller creature. Probably a second wolf. That thought was terrifying and if it was true what they said about animals being able to smell fear, then those beasts were in for a treat. Jaskier was surprised he had not wet himself at this point. He shifted slightly to get a better look at the other wolf, but as soon as the beast above him sensed his movements it snapped its attention back to Jaskier and growled in warning. Jaskier instantly froze at the sound.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry…”

The other wolf let out another wail, sharper this time. It sounded like it was in pain. The helpless whine the wolf pinning Jaskier down let out was another indication that something was wrong. The bard took comfort in the fact that the beasts had shown no signs of wanting to eat him yet.

“Is your friend hurt?” he asked the larger wolf, unsure what kind of answer he was expecting. The irritated huff he was met with was most likely unrelated to his question, but Jaskier liked to think the animals could understand him. Suddenly the bard remembered the vial some old woman at the tavern had handed him as payment for his performance. _A special kind of medicine that heals most wounds_.

“Hey, I… I got something in my pocket that I could use to help your friend.”

Jaskier noticed the way the large wolf’s ears twitched at his words. The piercing yellow eyes seemed to stare directly into his soul. Although the animal still looked unsure, at least he was not showing any teeth or any signs of aggressive behaviour. Almost as an afterthought, he got off Jaskier and sat on its haunches expectantly. The bard could not quite believe his luck as he watched the beast wait patiently for him to get up. It was probably confident that it could outrun Jaskier if the bard tried to flee. Rightly so, if Jaskier was perfectly honest. With slow precise movements, the bard fished the vial out of his pocket and rose to his feet. The beast’s head, even from its sitting position, reached up to Jaskier’s chest. The bard felt his knees go weak.

“I’m going to put some of that oil on your friend’s wound, okay? Don’t try to eat me while I’m doing that. I have to say I don’t know if it’ll hurt your friend or not. I hope it won’t. We can all get along, alright? I’m in the same boat as you and I don’t want anyone to get hurt today.”

The wolf blinked, never taking his eyes off Jaskier. The bard decided to attempt an approach but advanced one small step at a time to properly gauge the wolf’s reactions. The yellow-eyed beast made no movement to stop Jaskier’s approach on the wounded animal, and Jaskier visibly relaxed at the realisation. Now that the bard was closer, he could see the second wolf more clearly. It was not only smaller, but thinner too. It looked like a young pup who was not fully grown yet. Its flaxen coat was silky apart from where it had been wounded. Dark dried blood stained the otherwise spotless fur while pus oozed out of the wound. The young wolf was panting and did not manage to raise its head from the ground, but its eyes sought Jaskier’s nonetheless. The bard offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Hey little one. I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz, but my friends call me Jaskier. I have this special medicine here that’s supposed to make your wound all better. You’re lucky I got lost in these parts of the woods.” Jaskier uncorked the vial and smelled the oil within it. A faint odour of chamomile hit his nostrils. He decided to apply the oil directly to the wound. The younger wolf twitched when the cold oil hit the sensitive wound, but Jaskier took confidence in the fact that it never let out a single sound. Probably not painful, then. To Jaskier’s amazement, the pus around the wound slowly started disappearing, allowing the skin to magically close itself until all that was left were the blood-caked fur and a bald patch where the wound had been seconds earlier. It was like the wolf had never been hurt at all.

Jaskier stared at the now empty vial in sheer shock. What the fuck had just happened?

“Uh… I guess you’re fine now, huh?”

The younger wolf raised its head and looked at where its wound used to be, sniffing the bald patch curiously and giving it several probing licks. Jaskier flinched when he saw the silver wolf approach them, keeping a close eye on the human who had just helped its friend as he nuzzled the younger wolf’s head affectionately. Outside, the sun was shining again, brighter than ever. Jaskier longed to leave this cave as quickly as his legs would carry him, but before he could act on that thought he felt a large wet tongue lick the side of his face, leaving behind a trail of slobber reaching from his chin to the crown of his head. The younger wolf was now on its legs and was determined to clean Jaskier from head to toe as its tail wagged furiously in barely contained joy. The bard let out a nervous laugh when the wolf jumped at him and gently tackled him to the ground, trying to playfully nibble his hand. Realising the younger wolf only meant to play, Jaskier tried to relax and even brought himself to scratch the spot behind the beast’s ear, earning himself more approving licks from the grateful animal.

Playtime was interrupted by the silver wolf, who by producing a low rumbling noise similar to a growl let the younger wolf know that they were done fooling around with the human. The younger wolf seemingly understood and instantly hurried to the silver wolf’s side. Those yellow eyes locked with Jaskier’s again, almost as if silently thanking him for his service, and before long the two beasts took off into the woods leaving behind a more than baffled Jaskier.

_What the fuck had just happened?_

TBC. 


	2. Chapter 2

_Kaer Morhen, several hours earlier_

On the best of days, Geralt was not known for his cheerful mood. Arguably, this was the result of the many traumatic experiences that had shaped his life since his arrival at Kaer Morhen. To become a witcher had meant enduring pain beyond any mortal’s imagination while his body had mutated into a more enhanced version of himself. His senses had all been heightened and his stamina improved, his pulse slowed, and his emotions stripped from him. Geralt, like many other boys before him, had been turned into a powerful weapon. At an age where normal boys were legally considered adults and were encouraged to leave the family home to make their own mark in the world, Geralt was fighting the armies of Nilfgaard and watching many of his friends and mentors die as a consequence. He and the handful of witchers who had survived the siege had no other choice than to go into hiding to throw Nilfgaard off their scent. Arguably all these factors had contributed to Geralt’s growing bitterness over the years.

Nothing, however, made Geralt grumpier than being woken up by the crack of dawn by an excitable young girl Geralt had taken under his wing since he had found her lost in the forest.

“Geralt! Geralt, wake up, it’s morning!” Ciri urged him while shaking Geralt awake for good measure. The witcher grumbled incoherently as he pulled his pillow over his face, hopeful that it would be enough to drown out Ciri’s voice. He should have known better than to expect the girl to give up on her mission so easily.

“Geralt, wake up!” she repeated herself, punctuating each word with a punch to Geralt’s shoulder. “You promised you would take me hunting today, Geralt!”

“The sun is not even up yet,” Geralt mumbled tiredly, hoping that Ciri would take the hint and let him sleep at least until sunrise.

“Early bird gets the worm.”

“Did I never teach you the second part of that saying?”

“Geraaaalt,” Ciri whined in response, stretching every vowel in Geralt’s name in a way very fitting for a princess. Only Ciri was not a princess anymore, she was a young witcher. Geralt had reminded her often that at Kaer Morhen, her bratty tantrums would not get her what she wanted. Unfortunately for everyone else living under the same roof, Ciri had Geralt wrapped around her little finger.

“Alright, alright,” Geralt relented with a resigned sigh. Ciri let out a delighted squeal at his words. “I wish I could get you that excited about doing your chores.”

“If scrubbing dishes involved turning into wolf form then I’d happily do them.”

Ciri had celebrated her sixteenth birthday some weeks ago. At her age, Geralt had survived the Trial of the Grasses, various other mutating experiments and a siege which had nearly wiped out the entire witcher race. He was glad that Ciri could enjoy at least some normality in her young years. When Geralt had taken Ciri in ten winters ago, it quickly became obvious that magic coursed through the young princess’ veins. This fact alone had convinced everyone at Kaer Morhen to foster the girl if only to keep her safe from the witch hunters. If Geralt had not found her, Nilfgaard would have tracked her down eventually. They had saved her from a very gruesome death. Although Geralt and Vesemir had agreed that they would not put Ciri through the trauma of the Trials, there had been nothing speaking against her using the shapeshifting potions once her body had fully developed and could withstand the transformation into her wolf form.

“I can’t wait to finally run outside these walls. It must be so wonderful to feel the wind blowing through your fur as you chase a hare down the hill. Or feel the ground underneath your paws. Geralt, do you think we’ll get to take down a bear, you and I?”

“Settle down, pup,” Geralt threw on his leather breeches and a white undershirt before facing Ciri sternly, “this is your first time outside in your wolf form. You’ll be lucky if you manage to catch a squirrel.”

“How difficult can it be? We’re bigger and stronger than anything out there!”

“We’re bigger, yes, which also makes us slower and an easy target for predators. Don’t be overconfident, Ciri, I’ve told you about that before. Come now, let’s have breakfast first.”

“But-,” Ciri wanted to argue, but Geralt did not give her a chance to.

“Now, Ciri!”

The young princess groaned in frustration before stomping out of Geralt’s room, letting out an annoyed huff as she passed him. Geralt merely grinned. 

OoO

“Child, I understand that you’re eager to get out of here and explore,” Vesemir’s tone was stern but not unkind as he addressed Ciri, “but there are some things I would like to be clear in your mind before you leave these walls.”

“It’s not the first time I take the potion, uncle Vesemir-“

“Do not interrupt me, child!” Ciri’s words died in her throat as Vesemir snapped at her. The old witcher still exuded natural authority with which he was able to rile in the most stubborn of students – Ciri included. Geralt would have been quick to reprimand her had she acted this way around anyone else. Vesemir had dealt with hot-headed witchers for most of his life and was more than qualified to discipline Ciri on her lack of manners.

“I’m sorry, uncle Vesemir.”

“It’s alright, child. I don’t need to explain the transformation process to you, you’ve done it enough to know what it entails. However, the potion does things to your body that we haven’t fully explained to you yet. Are you listening carefully?”

For a minute, Geralt could feel Ciri’s hesitation as she turned around and stared at him questioningly. He offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile before placing a strong hand on Ciri’s shoulder. The young girl visibly relaxed as she turned to face Vesemir again and dedicating her full attention to him.

“Very well. The potion does more than just allow us to shapeshift. The reason we designed that potion was to be able to go unnoticed by the Nilfgaardian witch hunters. It strips us from all magic until its effects wear off. That means we are unable to use any sign spells as long as we are in our wolf shape. Now we are not sure how your magic will react to the potion, but we assume that your magic will be impaired somehow. You will be more vulnerable than in your human form. That’s why I don’t want you testing the extent of your magical abilities out there, do you hear me? That’s an activity I would like to keep within these walls for the time being.”

Ciri nodded her understanding, but Geralt could feel her vibrating with excitement. The girl was always up for adventure and she was not scared of the unknown. Geralt loved and hated her fearlessness, for although Ciri did not shy before any challenge her arrogant boldness was her greatest weakness. Over the years, Geralt had ceaselessly tried to teach his ward not to sail out farther than she could row back, yet Ciri always kept rowing and rowing until she lost sight of the shore. Geralt remembered the many instances when he, Eskel and Lambert had to ride out to save Ciri from being mauled by a pack of wargs or from being crushed by an angry bear. They had had several close calls, but somehow none of Ciri’s near-death experiences seemed to have discouraged her passion for getting herself into trouble all in the name of proving her worth. Geralt knew that no one could ever stop Ciri from soaring too close to the sun.

“Good. Now, every magic comes at a price. Because the potion strips us from our magic it also cancels out the effects of any mutations. No heightened senses, no enhanced speed and a normal pulse. In short, you become vulnerable in your wolf form until its effects wear off. Concretely it means that if you put yourself in danger, you become a greater liability for Geralt if he has to step in and save you. You must be extra cautious on hunts. A pack of wargs _can_ and _will_ take you down and kill you both. You need to keep close to Geralt at all times, is that understood?”

“Yes, uncle Vesemir,” said Ciri, but Geralt could feel her attention slipping. He gently reeled her excitement back in by squeezing her shoulder in warning.

“As for how long the effects of the potions will last, it all depends on the individual. Generally, they can last anywhere between two and twenty-four hours. If either of you change back into your human form before the other, I want you two to head back to the keep straight away. If the effects last longer, I want you back by sundown at the latest, alright?”

Both Geralt and Ciri agreed to the terms, but Vesemir did not look reassured. Geralt knew that the old witchers had everyone’s best interest at heart and worried about everyone’s safety. Part of it was his duty of care to his students, but there was more to it than professional concern. Vesemir had become a father figure to the handful of remaining witchers. Geralt especially relied on Vesemir’s counsel more than others, and some would even say that he became the old witcher’s favourite over the years. Although Geralt mostly dismissed these rumours as Lambert’s attempt at antagonising him, he had always wondered if perhaps there was some truth to the claims.

“And for the love of all that is good in this world, don’t get yourself into any trouble, princess! For once in your life, think before you do anything rash.”

“I will, uncle Vesemir. Now can we go?”

Geralt could not hide his amused smirk at Vesemir’s hesitation. The old witcher had grown softer over the years, but especially since Ciri had come into their lives. Just like Ciri had become a daughter to Geralt, Vesemir had developed a grandfatherly affection towards the girl despite Ciri referring to him as her uncle.

“I suppose you can. Here are the potions,” Vesemir relented with a heavy sigh which betrayed his unease. Geralt was quick to grab both vials from the older witcher before Ciri could get her hands on them. The young girl spun around and glared impatiently at Geralt, who merely raised an eyebrow at her spoilt attitude.

“Settle down, little one. Summarise what Vesemir just told you back to me.”

“But Geralt-“

“Ciri, I won’t ask you a second time,” Geralt interrupted sharply. Ciri let out an exasperated sigh as she rolled her eyes at Geralt’s demand. “Don’t be startled if you find a brain back there.”

“You should really work on your sense of humour, Geralt,” Ciri sassed him back, merely earning herself a satisfied smirk from her mentor. Realising that Geralt would not hand her the vial before she complied with his demand, Ciri crossed her arms before her chest and recited Vesemir’s words in a monotonous voice.

“Well done,” Geralt praised Ciri once he was satisfied with her summary. He tossed one of the vials at her, which the young girl caught with ease as a bright smile appeared on her face. “Drink up, little one.”

Ciri uncapped the vial and downed its contents in one swift motion. Soon, Geralt could hear the tell-tale sounds of bone cracking and snapping back together as Ciri’s body contorted into her wolf form. Thanks to years of tweaking, the potion made the process pain-free. Geralt remembered the first time he consumed the concoction and the excruciating pain that had followed when he felt every bone in his body break before transforming. It had taken several more trials to find the perfect balance between the ingredients before they could work on any anaesthetic properties. When Ciri had fully transformed, Geralt knocked back his own vial and instantly felt his body transform as the concoction took effect. While he felt no pain, Geralt felt like his magic was seeping through the pores in his body as the potion kicked in. The next time Geralt opened his eyes, he was standing on four legs and staring into the blue eyes of a flaxen wolf whose tail wagged uncontrollably with barely contained excitement.

“Be careful out there, the both of you. Off you go, then,” Vesemir shooed them as he opened the main door for them, “When Eskel sees you, he’ll open the front gates.”

Ciri bumped into Geralt and rubbed her face under his chin affectionately. Geralt nuzzled her head gently before nudging her towards the door. It did not take much convincing for the adolescent wolf to bounce away from him and take off towards the gate. Before Geralt followed, Vesemir knelt before him and stared straight into his eyes.

“I mean it, Geralt. Be careful.”

Geralt produced a low rumble in the bottom of his chest which Vesemir seemed to take as acknowledgement that Geralt understood. The older witcher rose to his feet and moved out of Geralt’s way.

 _“Geralt, come on what’s taking you so long!”_ Geralt heard Ciri’s voice in his head. They had not left the keep yet and he was already cursing the telepathic abilities the potion granted them for the sake of communication. There was no escaping the girl’s nagging now.

_“Just giving you a head start.”_

Not wasting another minute, Geralt raced Ciri to the front gate.

OoO

 _“Geralt, look! A bear! Let’s hunt it down,”_ Ciri’s excited voice resonated in Geralt’s mind, but luckily for him he was more agile on his paws than his young ward was. He nipped her back leg sharply, extracting a surprised yelp from the flaxen wolf.

_“Settle down, Ciri. Remember what Vesemir said about this potion leaving us vulnerable!”_

Although her facial expressions were limited in her wolf shape, Geralt was convinced that Ciri was glaring at him. Nonetheless, she lay flat on her stomach and stared at the lone bear through the bushes, her ears perked up and facing forward as she observed her surroundings with curiosity. However, her wagging tale betrayed her eagerness.

 _“Get that tail under control. They’ll be able to hear you thumping the ground with it,”_ Geralt admonished her as he mimicked her position.

_“I can’t help it. It’s got a will of its own.”_

_“Focus. Tuck it under you if that’s what it takes. Every little sound could reveal our position, so you need to be aware of your own body.”_

Geralt observed Ciri out of the corner of his eyes and noticed how the younger wolf focused on immobilising her tale. Ciri was a fast learner, and he had no doubt she would get the hang of it quickly. She just had to learn to channel her enthusiasm and be patient.

_“Very good, little one. Now observe your target. What does it reveal?”_

Ciri did not answer while she took in her surroundings. Her nose and whiskers twitched as she smelled the air. Her eyes followed the bear’s slow movements as it stood on its back legs to better access the beehive hanging from the lower branches. While the bear was drawn to the smell of honey, it was only a matter of time before it picked up their smell too. Judging by the way Ciri’s ears twitched uncontrollably in every direction, she was letting herself be distracted by every little sound around them.

_“Focus, Ciri.”_

_“There’s so much to think about, so many noises, so many smells… How do I know which ones belong to the bear?”_

_“You must learn to focus your attention on your target. Forget everything else. Ignore every sound and smell that does not seem to belong to that bear,”_ Geralt advised, remaining as still as possible.

_“I can smell… fish and… honey.”_

_“Good start.”_

_“And something else… something metallic…,”_ Ciri pointed out uncertainly.

_“Blood. Bears feed on carcasses and sometimes hunt small mammals. We need to be careful. If this one has had a taste for mammals, it will come after us. What else?”_

_“It’s a female, by the looks of things. She’s probably preparing to hibernate and is trying to fatten up before winter.”_

_“Correct,”_ Geralt praised Ciri, _“and even more reasons to leave this bear be for the time being. We aren’t strong enough to take it down.”_

Geralt could sense Ciri’s disappointment, but to his relief she rose to her feet and backed off.

OoO

Geralt sat at the edge of the forest, patiently waiting for Ciri to emerge from the woods. She insisted on hunting down a drove of hares which had nested not far away from their location. Although Geralt was not convinced she would be able to catch anything, he knew how important it was for her development to let her figure things out by herself. Failing was part of her education, no matter how disappointing the experience would feel to her.

_“It got away again. Stupid thing.”_

_“Don’t be discouraged. It took Lambert three months to bring back his first prize. His first catch turned out to be a crippled squirrel.”_

_“That’s precious blackmailing material you’re giving me here, Geralt,”_ Ciri said in an amused tone.

_“You did not hear this from me.”_

Ciri’s laugh echoed in Geralt’s mind.

OoO

It had all happened so fast. One minute, Geralt and Ciri were stopping by the riverbank for a drink of water and the next, they were surrounded by a pack of wild dogs. Geralt had not heard them approach, which was not so unusual considering wild dogs were incredibly light footed. Still, Geralt cursed himself for letting them catch him off guard.

_“Geralt… what do we do?”_

_“Stay calm.”_

Geralt’s lip curled up to reveal razor-sharp canines as a threatening growl rumbled in his chest. The wild dogs took no heed of the warning as they edged forward, snarling viciously at him and Ciri. Geralt took several quick steps forward so he was shielding Ciri with his body, snapping at the closest dogs for emphasis. Some of the beasts cowered back in fear, but the bolder members of the group barked loudly at Geralt. He merely growled in return, waiting for the dogs to be close enough so he could attack their exposed necks. Geralt and Ciri were much larger than the average wolves, which gave them an advantage point when attacking smaller predators. However, Geralt could not possibly take on the whole pack by himself and he could not expect Ciri to fight efficiently when she could barely muster enough coordination to chase after hares.

_“Ciri, listen carefully. When I say so, you will jump at the nearest dogs and whatever you do, don’t let them pin you down. Go for the eyes and the neck. Understood?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Good.”_

Geralt stood stiff and tall, his ears were erect and forward, and the hackles on the back of its neck bristled as he snarled viciously at the wild dogs circling in on them. Geralt crouched backwards, preparing to pounce on the dogs.

_“Now!”_

The air was filled with a cacophony of growls, pained yelps and angry barking as Geralt leapt at the nearest dogs and pinned it to the ground before sinking his teeth into its shoulder. His actions pulled a sharp wail from the dog, but before he could do any real damage Geralt was attack from behind by another member of the pack, which wasted no time biting Geralt’s haunches hard enough to draw blood. Geralt threw himself against a nearby tree, an action which dislodged the dog’s teeth from his skin. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed Ciri scratching at a young dog’s eyes and bouncing over a second one to avoid being attacked. Geralt did not linger on his ward longer than necessary and quickly seized one dog by the scruff of the neck. Geralt’s canines cut through the fur and thick skin, and as his powerful jaws applied pressure to the area he heard the distinct sound of bones breaking. Geralt dropped the lifeless dog to the ground and snarled menacingly at the two beasts who had witnessed the murder of a member of their pack. Both dogs cowered as they flattened their ears against their heads and tucked in their tails between their legs. Geralt towered over them, barking at them to scare them away. One of the dogs, undoubtedly the alpha, howled and retreated into the woods. Geralt watched the pack leave the scene of the attack, not without yapping angrily at the wolf responsible for their fallen friend’s death.

_“Geralt…”_

Ciri’s voice sounded laboured in his mind, which was Geralt’s first indication that something was wrong. He turned his large head to where the smaller flaxen wolf lay near the bank of the river only to find that Ciri had been badly wounded. Geralt found himself unable to move for a minute as he watched blood ooze out of Ciri’s wound. The pitiful whine she produced was enough to break Geralt’s heart. He rushed to her side and nuzzled her face gently, whining as the metallic smell of blood invaded his sensitive nostrils.

_“Geralt, it hurts…”_

_“It’s alright, little one. You’ll be alright. Hang in there.”_

Geralt scanned the area for a safe place to hide Ciri in while he fetched help. He could not believe his luck when he spotted the opening of a cave only several feet away from the scene of the attack.

 _“Can you walk?”_ he asked Ciri, worry lacing his tone. Ciri tried to rise but she struggled to keep her balance as pain shot through her body. A long, pained wail pierced the air as Ciri collapsed to the ground.

_“Geralt, I’m scared.”_

_“You’re alright, you’re safe little one. I need to get you out of sight. See that cave over there?”_

_“I do.”_

_“I need you to walk to there. If you lean on me, I can help you get there.”_

Ciri once again rose shakily and this time, with Geralt’s help, managed to stand on her legs. Slowly Geralt started moving towards the cave, mindful of Ciri’s injured side. The journey which would have taken them mere seconds before now felt like an eternity. Once they reached the entrance and had wandered deep enough inside the cave so Ciri was out of sight of predators, Geralt lowered himself slowly so Ciri would not hurt herself more by crashing onto the rocky surface.

 _“Don’t leave me, Geralt.”_ Ciri’s plea was followed by a heart-wrenching whine.

_“I have to get you help, little one.”_

_“I’m scared Geralt, please don’t leave. Please.”_

Geralt pondered his options, but he could not bear hearing Ciri so scared at the thought of him leaving.

_“Fine, I won’t go. I need to leave the cave for a little while so I can at least try to alert the others that something is wrong. I’ll be back soon, alright?”_

_“Alright.”_

Geralt licked Ciri’s face soothingly before dashing out of the cave. Once Geralt was outside, he howled as loudly as he managed in the hopes that someone at Kaer Morhen would hear him and send help. Geralt produced several long howls, followed by a series of shorter ones which put together formed a distress signal well-known by the witchers of Kaer Morhen. Vesemir had taught them all how to raise the alarm in case of complications while in their wolf forms. Geralt and Ciri were still close enough to Kaer Morhen that the sound of his howling would carry to the keep. Geralt would repeat the action several times over the next hours so that the others could follow the sound of his howls when they were out searching for them. Satisfied, he returned to Ciri’s side and lay down next to her.

_“I’m sorry, Geralt.”_

_“Hush, little one. Help will be there soon.”_

OoO

To add to their predicament, the rain started pouring outside the cave quickly and was quickly followed by the rumbling of thunder in the distance, which would make locating them even more challenging for the search party. That was provided they had heard Geralt’s two distress calls. Ciri’s wound was still oozing blood which was now mingled with pus. The infection was settling in quickly, and there was nothing Geralt could do in his wolf form. The pained yelps and pitiful whines merely tugged at his heartstrings more. All he could do while waiting for the others to find him was to watch Ciri die. Geralt had never felt so useless in his life.

_“Geralt… Geralt…”_

_“Hush, Ciri. Don’t waste your strength.”_

_“Geralt, there’s a man in the cave.”_

Instantly, Geralt’s senses were on high alert. A human in these parts was strange, but not unheard of. Men and women in search of adventure were known to lose themselves in these forests or meet their deaths when attempting the ascent of the treacherous mountains surrounding the valley. Contrary to popular belief, the witchers of Kaer Morhen never attacked humans. All they had to do was scare them off if they ever crossed paths. This was easily done in their wolf form. The chance than any human managed the full ascent to the keep was minimal. Even the best of witchers was out of breath at the end of the Trail; humans with their reduced stamina could not hope to reach the top alive. They would die of exhaustion, or at the very least of hunger or thirst first. Geralt noticed the human Ciri mentioned standing against the dim light filtering in from outside, drenched to the bone and panting heavily as he caught his breath. The human had his back turned on them, which provided Geralt with an opportunity to surprise him. Swiftly, Geralt stalked towards his prey keeping as close to the ground as possible. One he was close enough, Geralt pounced at the human and pinned him to the ground with his front paws pressing on the human’s chest.

“Oh boy… Ooooooh boy!”

Geralt stared at the human’s terrified face, baring his teeth to warn the human that any rash movement on his part would result in instant death. Geralt was suddenly really aware of the weight of his paws on the human’s chest. His pads felt hot and the unexpected heat travelled all the way up his front legs and coursed through his body like the blood in his veins was made of pure fire and lightening. It was almost as if touching the human had sent Geralt into a momentary catharsis. For a split second, all his worries and self-loathing disappeared. For this split second, he felt more at peace than he had in a lifetime. The feeling quickly dissipated, and Geralt made a point not show his evident surprise and discomfort at the new sensation. He instead focused on terrifying the human into an early grave so he would not get too close to Ciri.

"Easy... I'm not here to hurt you, I just wanted shelter from the rain. Please don't eat me...,” the human beneath him pleaded, his voice trembling as Geralt snarled aggressively.

_“Geralt, what’s happening?”_

Geralt did not reply. Something primitive in him was pleased to see the human avert his gaze in submission. The dominant wolf in Geralt preened at the sight, and the human’s actions had an appeasing effect on him. He had effectively scared the man into submission. If Geralt kept him pinned to the ground, he would pose no threat to Ciri. The human was rambling about how he had lost his way home, but Geralt quickly lost interest. Only Ciri’s high-pitched howl reminded Geralt of the precarious situation she was in. He turned his head towards the noise wishing he could take the pain away.

_“Geralt, the pain is getting worse.”_

_“I’m sorry, pup. I wish there was something I can do. You’re strong, little one. Hang in there.”_

Geralt felt the human shift underneath him, but the man quickly regretted his decision when Geralt snapped angrily at him.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry…,” the human apologised, the stench of fear filling the small cave. Geralt ignored the way his stomach churned at the acrid smell. Ciri let out another sharp wail, which Geralt merely answered with a helpless whine.

“Is your friend hurt?”

 _“Does it sound like she’s hurt?”_ Geralt let out an irritated huff at the human’s stating of the obvious.

_“Don’t be mean. He… seems nice.”_

“Hey, I… I got something in my pocket that I could use to help your friend,” said the human, which immediately caught Geralt’s attention. His amber eyes were fixated on the nervous human under him. Geralt briefly wondered if this was a set-up. What could this human possibly possess that could help Ciri?

 _“Let him close,”_ said Ciri.

 _“We don’t know for sure that he’s telling the truth,”_ Geralt argued.

_“He’s an honest man. I can feel it, Geralt. Trust me on this one, please…”_

Geralt was not convinced, but he had never been able to refuse Ciri anything. Hesitantly, he stepped off the human and sat back on his haunches. He almost felt amused as he watched the human moved slowly as if worried that any rash movements would convince Geralt to pounce on him and kill him. Geralt patiently waited for the human to gather his thoughts and his amber eyes followed the man’s every movement as he made his way to Ciri. The human then proceeded to plainly voice his intentions and begging Geralt not to eat him if his mystery remedy hurt Ciri in any way.

_“See? He’s nice. He wants to help.”_

_“Hm.”_

“Hey little one. I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz, but my friends call me Jaskier.”

Geralt felt his front paws which had been pinning the human Jaskier down mere seconds ago tingle at the sound of his name. The more he was feeling these odd sensations course through his body, the more Geralt suspected that touching Jaskier had triggered a reaction that was beyond his own comprehension. The sound of Jaskier’s voice felt familiar although Geralt was positive he had never heard it before. Jaskier uncorked a vial and Geralt detected the faint smell of chamomile. He watched intently as Jaskier poured the contents of the vial over Ciri’s wound.

 _“What’s happening?”_ he asked Ciri.

_“My wound… it’s healing. The pain is going away!”_

Geralt could not believe what he was hearing. A human carrying a vial filled with some mixture capable of sealing up a wound in mere seconds was not something Geralt had expected to find when he had set out on his adventure this morning. Hope filled him as he saw Ciri stir, seemingly not feeling any kind of pain at all.

“Uh… I guess you’re fine now, huh?”

Geralt rose to his feet and went to see the miracle recovery for himself. Geralt discovered with amazement that the angry infected wound was now gone, the only indication that Ciri had ever been hurt being the blood caked fur on her side. Geralt ignored the way the human flinched at his approach, instead nuzzling Ciri’s head in relief when realisation dawned on him that she would be alright.

_“I’m fine, Geralt.”_

_“I’m glad, little one.”_

_“And it’s all thanks to this human!”_

Before Geralt could react, Ciri was on her feet and lapping at the human’s face like he was an old friend. Geralt indulged Ciri’s playfulness and allowed her to fool around with the human a while longer. How could he refuse her this display of gratitude? After all, Jaskier had saved her life. Outside, the storm had dissipated and the sun was shining. Now was their chance to run back to the safety of the keep. They might run into the search party on their way back.

_“Ciri, let’s go.”_

_“Oh Geralt come on, just a little more time. He saved my life!”_

_“You made it clear that you’re grateful,”_ Geralt told Ciri, his tone leaving no room for discussion. To his surprise, Ciri listened and stepped away from the human. Geralt locked his eyes with Jaskier, unsure how to thank the human for saving the young girl’s life. Something about that man felt different. Something made Geralt pause in his tracks as he stared intently at the uncomfortable human. He was not like the others, that much was clear.

_“Let’s go.”_

With those words, Geralt headed out closely followed by Ciri.

TBC.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took longer than expected to write and to post, and it is also a shorter chapter. I had to lead into the next chapter and get the plot moving after establishing the premise in the first two chapters. Plus, I had to finish my dissertation (which is now completely done and submitted, yaaaay) and move house. A lot on my plate, on top of lockdown. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Thanks for the support guys.
> 
> xx

Jaskier was lost.

That should not have come as a surprise to him, and yet his frustration was merely amplified as that realisation hit him. The sound of his empty stomach growling in complaint startled Jaskier as it echoed through the otherwise silent forest. His tongue darted out to lick his cracked lips soothingly, but the action brought him little relief. Jaskier was not convinced that he could carry on much longer without a break, exhaustion evident in the way he dragged his feet and stumbled over imaginary obstacles. Not before long, the sun would disappear behind the tall mountains and Jaskier truly wished to be out of the woods before nightfall. He would have to make good use of the daylight to find a shelter for the night or risk roaming the forest in the dark, at the mercy of whatever creature found him first. Jaskier had no doubt that other beasts would not be as lenient as the two wolves he had come across in the cave. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. Willing these thoughts away, Jaskier pushed past the pain in his muscles as he cut across protruding roots and prickly bushes until he saw rays of light filtering through the row of trees. A clearing, most likely. As fast as the hazardous terrain allowed, Jaskier made his way towards the light, cursing loudly every time his clothes got caught in wayward branches barring his way. When he finally reached the edge of the forest, Jaskier was momentarily blinded by the sun. It took his eyes several seconds to adjust to the brightness of his surroundings. Jaskier’s artistic soul could not help the reverential gasp that pushed past his lips as he took in the scenery. Despite his circumstances, Jaskier paused to admire the way the sun inundated the clearing with its warm light. The lusciously green grass was bespeckled with dots of white and purple which Jaskier recognised from his botany lessons as white daffodils and mountain lupines. Jaskier closed his eyes and breathed in their unique fragrances, letting the smell soothe his troubled soul. Jaskier suddenly wished he had his notebook to jot down all the emotions the scene stirred in him. This picturesque tableau could inspire any artist.

In the distance, Jaskier could make out the gentle splashing of water against the streambed as it followed its course. The sound caused his heart to leap in his chest as Jaskier realised what it implied. Instantly he became aware of just how parched he felt. His feet seemed to move of their own volition as Jaskier followed the noise to its source. When he finally spotted the stream, the bard was so relieved that he felt like bursting into tears as he dropped to his knees and greedily drank the fresh water out of his cupped hands. Jaskier blessed all the gods he knew for guiding him towards this stream, and for a moment he was able to forget that he was lost and still had no idea which direction to walk in. After a while, Jaskier wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand as he inspected his surroundings more closely. He spied some bushes on his right bearing dark blue berries which Jaskier knew to be bilberries; not the hot meal Jaskier had been fantasising about, but they would most certainly do the job. Jaskier ate as many berries as he could stomach and washed them down with more fresh water. Sooner than anticipated, Jaskier felt the air grow colder as the sun disappeared behind the mountain and cast a long shadow over the clearing. The momentary peace Jaskier felt was quickly replaced by dread at the thought of spending the night in this unknown wilderness. Jaskier briefly considered following the stream and hope that it would lead him to civilisation eventually, but that would mean re-entering the dark forest and Jaskier wanted to avoid this at all cost. The other option was to remain in the clearing until morning, which was not necessarily more attractive than the former. Jaskier felt stuck between a rock and a hard place as he weighted the possibilities before settling for staying in the clearing for the time being, where he could replenish his energy by eating wild berries and drinking fresh water. He could worry about finding his way back home in the morning.

Jaskier lay down on the soft grass and rested the back of his head on his right arm. Before long, he succumbed to his own exhaustion and fell asleep to sound of crickets chirping and owls hooting.

OoO

Jaskier woke up with a start well after the sun had set and the world around him was nothing but eerie darkness. His skin was covered in a fine sheen of sweat as he willed his racing heart to slow down. Jaskier guessed that something must have spooked him in his sleep to occasion such a reaction from him. Suddenly hyperaware of his surroundings, his eyes frantically scanned the area for any signs of danger. It was a moonless night and the dim light emanating from the stars inadequately lit the clearing. Jaskier’s eyes had yet to adapt to the darkness, but in his state of panic his ears picked up the faintest sound coming from the rows of trees encircling the exposed glade. The screeching of owls, the squeaking of bats, crunching twigs, and the creaking of rigid branches stubbornly refusing to move with the wind all added to the cacophony of spine-tingling noises that sent Jaskier’s fight or flight instincts into overdrive. Unlike other poets he had met at Oxenfurt, Jaskier had never given his own death much thought. He much rather preferred to focus on the present than dwell on the past or worry about the future. Truth be told, there were not many pleasant memories in his past that Jaskier wished to hold onto. Jaskier kept the few mementos which sparked joy under lock and key. Preoccupying himself with the future was a waste of precious time in his opinion. There was nothing like living in the present and taking each day as it came. Now that Jaskier was faced with the inevitability of his own demise, his carefree attitude regarding death was called into question as every decision suddenly became about survival. There was nothing like spending a night in the forest to become painfully aware on one’s own mortality.

 _Snap_.

Jaskier instantly froze at the sound. He dared not move for fear to attract the attention of whatever was lurking in the forest in such close proximity to his current position. Jaskier remained perfectly still, even going as far as to hold his breath to make as little noise as humanly possible. The only sound that could be heard was that of his own heartbeat thumping incessantly in his ears. Jaskier swallowed dryly past the lump in his throat. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead and along the nape of his neck as an overwhelming sense of panic overtook him. Any wild animal would be able to smell his fear from miles away. Jaskier’s fear kept him rooted to the spot, yet every fibre of his being urged him to run, run, run… as far away and as fast as his human legs could carry him.

_Snap. Crack._

Whispers. Jaskier could make out whispers arising from the bushes. Unless the animals in these parts had developed the ability to speak, these whispers could only have been produced by humans. Jaskier thought he could weep for joy as he scrambled to his feet and followed the sound of the murmurs to its source. Unsurprisingly, the hushed chatter instantly ceased. Jaskier took slow tentative steps towards the bushes as he licked his dry lips. Those humans were arguably just as terrified of being attacked by wild animals than he was, so Jaskier should probably let them know that he posed them no threat.

“Hello? Anybody out there?” Jaskier’s question was met with silence, as was to be expected. “I promise I mean you no harm. I got lost in the forest and ended up here, thought I’d sleep in the open rather than risk getting caught in the forest at night. All I want is to go home. Can you help me?”

Silence. Jaskier sighed.

“Please, whoever you are… have mercy on a lost traveller. I only need directions to the nearest town. I don’t have much coin to speak of, but I’m sure we can find an arrangement. Please, I don’t even know how I got here, or where I am. I just – “

Jaskier did not get the chance to finish his sentence before something emerged from the bushes and pounced at him. For the second time in the past twenty-four hours, Jaskier found himself pinned to the ground and unable to escape the clutches of his attacker. He sensed a pattern forming… only this time, he felt the sharp edge of a blade press against the tender skin of his throat.

“Who are you?” a distinctly male voice asked him as the attacker tightened his grip on the hilt of his knife. Jaskier could not make out the other man’s features in the dark, but there was no mistaking the way the stranger’s eyes flashed yellow as he stared intently at Jaskier.

“Answer me, human!” the man urged him, the blade of his knife cutting into Jaskier’s throat deep enough to draw blood but not so much as to cause any serious harm… yet. Jaskier was confident that this stranger could kill him in a blink of an eye with a hand tied around his back.

“I… My name is Jaskier… please sir, I mean no harm. I have nothing valuable on me. I just want to leave this place,” Jaskier told his attacker in a pleading tone.

“How did you get here?”

“I don’t know!”

“Don’t lie to me, human! It won’t end well for you…” the man threatened him, his knife digging more earnestly into his throat this time and pulling a pained yelp from Jaskier.

“Lambert! That’s enough!” a second voice shouted, causing Jaskier to flinch.

“Oh goody, another one!” Jaskier commented sarcastically before he could stop the words from leaving his mouth.

“Shut up!” the man known as Lambert snapped at him, “or I’ll slit your throat quicker than you can say your own name.”

“Lambert, stop,” the second man ordered in a much firmer tone which left no room for arguments.

“He’s a human, Eskel! For all we know he’s the reason Geralt and Ciri sounded the alarm. What if he hurt them?” Lambert argued, allowing anger to get the better of him. Before Jaskier could deny the accusations thrown at him, he felt Lambert’s hand tighten around his throat and squeeze the area until Jaskier was visibly struggling for breath. He vaguely heard the other man, Eskel, bellowing at Lambert to let go of him, but all it did was encourage Lambert to apply more pressure on Jaskier’s throat.

Death through asphyxiation it was, then. Not as peaceful as Jaskier would have liked, but he was not exactly in any position to argue.

“STOP!” a third voice called, although it sounded so faint and distant Jaskier might as well have hallucinated the entire thing. Jaskier’s eyes fluttered shut as he became lightheaded from the lack of air in his lungs. He had lost all sensation in his limbs and extremities. At this point, Jaskier figured that there was no point in struggling, and resented himself to welcome death with open arms.

Destiny clearly had other plans in store for him.

Jaskier unexpectedly felt a weight being lifted from his chest as Lambert was forcibly removed from him. With the hand which had been strangling him now gone, Jaskier was able to breathe easily again. He gasped loudly as he desperately tried to fill his lungs with much needed air. A considerably softer hand patted his back soothingly, and only once Jaskier had somewhat steading his breath did he realise that someone was whispering words of encouragement in his ear.

“It’s okay, you’re safe. Take it easy, that’s it…”

A girl’s voice, Jaskier realised.

“Get the fuck off me!” Lambert roared, an action which caught Jaskier’s attention. His eyes widened at the sight he was met with. In a formidable turn of events, Lambert was now being tackled to the ground by a wolf so large Jaskier almost mistook it for a small horse. His heart dropped in his chest when he identified the beast as the same wolf who had pounced on him in the cave several hours earlier.

_What the fuck is going on?_

“Geralt, Ciri! You’re alive!” Eskel exclaimed with genuine relief noticeable in his tone.

“Oh happy days,” Lambert drawled facetiously, earning himself a warning snarl from the wolf pinning him to the ground.

“Lambert, this human saved my life,” the girl, Ciri, declared with such assurance that Jaskier was almost inclined to believe her, even though he was positively certain he had never met the girl before. Lambert, on the other hand, looked a lot less convinced that Jaskier was capable of anything of the sort.

“Him?” Lambert scoffed incredulously, “But… but he’s…”

“He saved me, Lambert,” Ciri repeated, emphasising every word while she stared intently at a baffled Lambert. Jaskier shot Ciri a confused look, but she paid him no heed.

“Let’s all calm down,” Eskel said in a calm, composed way, “Lambert, you especially.”

“But this is a _human_ , brother,” Lambert argued, his voice betraying his hurt and bitterness, “do I need to remind you what happened the last time humans got to close to the keep? The last time they got too close to us? Carnage, that’s what. Ask the elves, as the sorceresses of Aretuza, ask any race that has been obliterated as a result of humans’ greed for power and wealth. Wherever humans go, carnage and bloodbaths follow. What makes you think _this_ human is any different than the rest of them? He could be a spy of Nilfgaard.”

“Lambert, just _look_ at him,” Eskel pointed at Jaskier demonstratively, “do you really think that guy looks like spy-material to you?”

“While I appreciate you defending me, I – “

“He would make for a piss-poor spy if he _looked_ the part, brother,” Lambert interrupted Jaskier without as much as a second glance.

“If I _may_ say something here,” Jaskier piped up, his voice hoarse from having his throat and vocal cords manhandled by Lambert earlier. Jaskier cleared his throat and used the opportunity to rise to his feet, “I don’t know what you, sir Lambert, are referring to, but I can assure you that I am no assassin, no hired spy from Nilfgaard and I am most certainly not out looking for trouble. My name is Jaskier, I am a travelling bard who apparently wandered too far into the mountains and got lost. All I want is to go back to my life and forget all about this horrible place. Please, you have to believe me. I am no adventurer, I am also not a hero despite what this young lady claims. In fact, as nice as you were to wedge that in to save me from being choked to death, miss, I have never seen you in my life. The only life I saved in the past twelve hours was that of a – “

“Wolf?” Ciri supplied, a small amused smile appearing on her young features, “flaxen coat, suffering from a festering wound, travelling with _that_ grumpy silver wolf?” Ciri pointed at Geralt, who merely let out a nonplussed huff at the rather unflattering description provided by the young girl. Ciri ignored his reaction as she turned her focus back to Jaskier. “You healed my festering wound with some kind of magic ointment.”

“Magic ointment?” Eskel reiterated, almost to confirm that he heard Ciri right. Even Lambert seemed at loss for words. In the meantime, Jaskier was nothing short of bewildered. He pinched himself discreetly, hoping to soon wake up from this messed up dream. Magic ointments? Wolves the size of small horses, who can conveniently turn into humans. While that would make for an entertaining, albeit blasphemous story, Jaskier could not understand how any of it could possibly be real. Shapeshifting wolves and hidden brotherhoods were concepts that belonged to the legends of old, and –

_Hold the fuck up!_

“Jaskier? Are you okay?” Ciri asked, concern evident in her voice and reflected in her cerulean blue eyes. Jaskier ignored her, unable to tear his gaze away from the silver wolf who was staring at him with piercing yellow eyes. A large scar marred the left side of his long face, probably one of many. There was intelligence reflected in those orbs, as well as recognition and understanding. Everything suddenly seemed to click into place.

Witchers.

 _Shapeshifting_ witchers.

The legends were all true.

_Melitele be damned!_

“He knows too much,” Lambert decreed as he rose effortlessly to his feet. Jaskier was grateful that he showed no sign of attacking him again. “Even if he’s not a spy, even if he’s as innocent as he claims he is, he has been let in on our secret. We can’t risk sending him back to the humans and have our identity and location revealed. We would be opening ourselves to a new attack, a new massacre. We must kill him.”

“Absolutely not!” Ciri cried out, positioning herself in front of Jaskier so that she was shielding him from harm. An endearing gesture, but admittedly not one that filled Jaskier with much confidence. Even though they seemed just as hot-headed as each other, Ciri was physically no match for Lambert. Not that this would discourage the young girl, Jaskier could tell. “That human did not deserve to die. He saved my life, he was kind! I won’t let you harm him.”

“And what will you do to stop me, princess?”

Jaskier noticed the way the silver wolf – Geralt, if his memory served him right – curled his upper lip to reveal sharp canines. No sound escaped his mouth, and none was needed to get his message across. Threaten Ciri, and he would make it a personal affair. Jaskier swallowed thickly, his nervousness getting the better of him. Lambert, despite seeming confident, was evidently all-bark-no-bite. Geralt’s warning seemed to have the desire effect, and Jaskier watched with awe as his attacker stepped away from him and Ciri without another word. Satisfied, Geralt turned his head back to Jaskier and fixated him with those piercing eyes again. To say that Jaskier felt unsettled by their intensity was an understatement.

“Let him go,” Ciri demanded, “as repayment for saving my life. We can give him a potion that will make him forget ever meeting us.”

“Well, I don’t think I would like that very – “

Jaskier’s complaint was shut down by the silver wolf producing a low rumble which started at the bottom of his chest and travelled all the way up his throat. It was not aggressive, but it was enough of a warning for Jaskier to bite his tongue.

“He was carrying a magic ointment. He clearly understands how magic works, perhaps even knows how to control his inner chaos, too. What is to say he won’t find a way to reverse the spell?” Lambert argued, making Jaskier scoff in disbelief.

“Why I’ll say, I have never heard such ridiculous notion...”

“Shut up!” Eskel admonished him, but Jaskier was growing more confident knowing he had Ciri’s support and that the silver wolf would potentially intervene if anyone tried to kill him, even if just for Ciri’s sake.

“No, I won’t shut up! I would very much appreciate it if you stopped treating me like I was invisible. First of all, I have a name and I very much like you to use it rather than refer to me as ‘the human’. Second, as for my political views, I don’t tend to share them and I cannot say that I am much of a political connoisseur, but I am most definitely not in Nilfgaard’s pockets, much less do I agree with their values or their practices. Finally, I just want to get back to my own life. I will take your secret to my grave, you have my word. Please, I just want to go _home_.”

Ciri shot him a compassionate look, while Lambert focused so hard on keeping his mouth shut his face turned bright red and his nostrils flared, giving him the airs of an enraged animal. Eskel looked contemplative as he pondered Jaskier’s words, and Geralt… well, he looked calm for a wolf. It was hard to gauge his thoughts when he was in animal form. Jaskier wondered what the silver wolf looked like in his human form. Judging by the white and silver fur, Jaskier could only imagine him as an old man sporting a long beard and making wise statements that ended every feud. He also appeared to be the most senior member of the group, which only reinforced Jaskier’s theory. Then again, appearances could be deceiving. Ciri was the living proof of that.

“I agree with you Ciri,” Eskel declared after several minutes of silent reflection, “the hu – Jaskier deserves at least the benefit of the doubt for saving you. I also agree with Lambert, however, that we cannot let him go free with how much he knows about us.”

“What do you suggest we do?” Lambert enquired, clearly unhappy with the outcome. Eskel did not instantly reply, instead seeking Geralt’s yellow eyes. Jaskier wondered if they could communicate through some magical bond, but he figured his questions could wait.

“Let’s take him to Vesemir.”

“Back to the keep?” Lambert cried out indignantly, “a human at Kaer Morhen? Are you out of your fucking mind, brother? I can’t believe you’re suggesting this.”

Kaer Morhen. The witchers’ keep that was destroyed over a century ago. If Jaskier was not convinced that he was dealing with the witchers of old before, there was no denying their identity now. He had to remember to cash in his reward from those peasants, provided he made it out of the forest alive.

“Vesemir will decide what to do with the human. Lambert, unless you have a better idea other than killing the human, I suggest you pipe the fuck down.”

“But – “

“You are not in charge, brother. This is a group decision, and you are outnumbered. Either you get on with it, or you suck it up. You can argue your case before Vesemir, but until then you keep your mouth shut and your murderous tendencies to yourself. Have I made myself clear?” Lambert looked about to argue, but to Jaskier’s surprise he nodded his understanding stiffly. “Good, that’s settled. Let’s head back to the keep before we get caught in the snow.”

Jaskier felt anxiety take a hold of him again, and were it not for Ciri’s comforting hand on his bicep and the knowledge that Geralt could outrun him even on a bad day with a broken leg, Jaskier would have probably attempted to run for his life. There was nowhere to run to, though. And he had a greater chance of survival by travelling with those… witchers… than by running around in circles like a headless chicken in the forest all day and night. 

Reluctantly, Jaskier followed the others as they made their way to Kaer Morhen.

TBC.


	4. Chapter Four

Jaskier could not remember a time in his life when his muscles had ached that much.

Lambert and Eskel were riding on either side of Jaskier, while Ciri and the silver wolf known as Geralt lead the way, keeping a fair distance ahead of the riders and their closely guarded prisoner. A pity, for Ciri seemed the friendliest of the lot and unlike Eskel and Lambert, she did not treat him like a criminal. Jaskier managed to distract himself from the muscular cramps in his legs and lower back by examining his captors’ features more closely in the dim light of the torches. Eskel and Lambert looked similar which had Jaskier wondering whether they were related. Where Eskel wore his dark brown hair at shoulder length and gathered at the nape of his neck in a low ponytail, Lambert kept his short and well-trimmed. Both sported impressive scars on the right sides of their faces. Eskel’s face was marred with several sinuous scars running parallel to each other from his right brow all the way down his chin, while Lambert bore a single scar beginning just under his hairline and disappearing in his full beard somewhere halfway up his cheek. However, it was the identical pair of amber-coloured eyes that captivated Jaskier’s attention the most. He was beginning to wonder if perhaps all witchers were related by blood, but he quickly dismissed the thought. Ciri looked nothing like them, and Jaskier was still not sure what the silver wolf looked like in his human form either.

“How long until we finally reach your home?” Jaskier asked, trying to sound as pleasant as possible considering the aggravating circumstances. Neither Eskel nor Lambert answered him, which on top of being infuriating felt incredibly _rude_ considering Jaskier had done nothing to deserve being treated with such disrespect. If anything, he had acted like the perfect gentleman from the start. There was truly no need for the witchers’ sour attitude.

“Could I at least ride on one of your horses? I am tired from all this travelling I did before you found me, and I’m afraid all this walking and exploring has left me really light-headed. I could collapse at any time now.”

“Shut up,” Lambert snapped at him, “before I give you a reason to complain.”

“Lambert, ease off,” Eskel admonished without taking his eyes off the path ahead. Jaskier felt like sticking his tongue out at Lambert, but he did not want to risk attracting the ill-tempered witcher’s wrath. Eskel was a lot more level-headed than Lambert, which filled Jaskier with hope for his fate. Perhaps Eskel would be able to convince this Vesemir character to let Jaskier leave with his life intact. Jaskier let the possibility comfort him as he soldiered on despite the sudden dizziness that took a hold of him.

“Could I maybe trouble you for some water?” he requested weakly. Lambert was about to cut in with a snarky comment when Eskel pulled a water pouch out of his satchel attached to the horse’s saddle, which he wordlessly handed to Jaskier. The bard gratefully accepted the offering and drank greedily, ignoring Lambert glaring at him from his raised position. Jaskier felt slightly guilty for emptying the pouch of its contents.

“Thank you,” he said as he handed the empty pouch back to Eskel, who never verbally acknowledged Jaskier’s gratitude but his eyes held that spark of recognition. This was going to be a long trip back to Kaer Morhen if every member of this small group was unwilling to converse. To say that Jaskier was out of his element was an understatement. He entertained crowds with his singing and his storytelling for a living. He was a bard, a free spirit, a poet, a composer… being urged to keep his mouth shut for longer than ten minutes was harder than Jaskier could have ever imagined. Thankfully, the silence was broken by Ciri’s voice calling Eskel and Lambert’s names urgently as she ran towards them. Jaskier noticed both witchers tense as they brought their mounts to an abrupt halt.

“What is it, Ciri?”

“Geralt, he just took off. I think he’s shifting back into his human form,” Ciri informed them. Although she tried to hide how alarmed she felt, Jaskier could discern the slight tremor in her voice.

“He’ll be alright, little one. Don’t worry,” Lambert reassured her in a soft tone that Jaskier did not know the witcher was capable of. Clearly Ciri was deserving of his affections.

“We need to wait for him,” said Ciri in a tone that left no room for any arguments, “He would not have left our sides if any of us had been in the same situation.”

Jaskier found himself smiling at the girl’s fierce sense of loyalty. He wondered if Ciri was related to Geralt in some way, perhaps a daughter or niece? Even a sister, potentially? Jaskier had so many unanswered questions that he dared not voice out loud. Although Eskel seemed more civilised, Jaskier was not ready to face Lambert’s snarky attitude. Jaskier was tired, hungry and sore. A cranky Jaskier was an unpleasant Jaskier, which would not serve him at all if he were to make a good impression on the witchers and this Vesemir he yet had to meet. He would do anything to convince them to spare his life; a bad attitude would not go down well during negotiations. 

“Ciri, we have to make haste before the first snow,” Eskel reasoned with her, “Geralt can take care of himself, trust me on this.”

“Please, Eskel, we can’t leave him here. We need to stick together, that’s what Vesemir always tells us!”

Jaskier observed Lambert’s and Eskel’s reactions closely. Both averted Ciri’s eyes while the young girl stared at them sternly, her arms crossed before her chest. All that was missing from the picture was Ciri tapping her foot impatiently on the ground to complete the impression of a scolding mother. Her words had clearly made an impression on both witchers. Their reaction reinforced Jaskier’s theory that Vesemir was presumably the patriarchal figure of the group.

“Alright. We’ll wait for Geralt to come back. Shouldn’t take him long,” Eskel decreed as he dismounted his horse and relieved the beast of its bridles and metal mouthpiece. Lambert swiftly followed with a resigned sigh. Meanwhile Ciri could not looked more pleased with herself if she tried. She flashed Jaskier a friendly smile as she made her way to him. Surprisingly, neither Lambert nor Eskel objected.

“Sometimes you need to be firm with those two,” Ciri told him, clearly not worried about keeping her voice down, “but they have their hearts in the right place.” Jaskier heard Eskel and Lambert mumble under their breaths, but they did not correct Ciri. Jaskier directed a tense smile at the young woman. She saw right through him and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

“I… I’m just tired from all my adventures. I had enough excitement for a lifetime,” Jaskier joked, suddenly feeling nauseous. Out of nowhere, his throat felt dry and scratchy, his hands were moist. His heartrate picked up dramatically, making Jaskier feel lightheaded all over again. Jaskier’s legs suddenly gave out, causing the bard to tumble to the ground. He could vaguely make out Ciri’s voice calling out his name, but she sounded distant and hazy. The world started spinning around Jaskier. Something – or perhaps someone – grabbed his shoulder and shook him resolutely, which only worsened Jaskier’s nausea. He tried to find the strength to tell his captors that he was fine, that he just needed to lay down for a while, but his voice died in his throat as Jaskier’s body suddenly contorted in agony. The feeling came as unexpectedly as the nausea and dizziness, a shooting pain which started in his lower back and travelled through his nervous system like lightening. Jaskier’s blood felt like it was boiling in his veins and he feared that he would never again get enough air in his lungs. Panic merely added to his breathlessness as the intense pain pulled an ear-piercing howl from Jaskier. He had never felt such intense agony in his life. In his delirium, Jaskier brought a hand up to his chest and felt the heat emanating from the area through his thin shirt damp with his own sweat. It was like someone was marking him with a branding iron. The new sensation only heightened his panic.

Several more piercing screams filled the air as Jaskier thrashed against whoever was restraining him. Suddenly, Jaskier’s movement stilled as the pain subsided as quickly as it appeared. He lay motionless on the ground for a while, listening to Ciri’s voice gently coax him back to reality. He was leaning against someone else – either Lambert or Eskel, not that it mattered who it was. Jaskier was grateful for the support. The world was still spinning around him. Jaskier felt weaker than he did before, the aftermath of the experience leaving a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

“What’s that on his chest?” Ciri asked after a prolonged silence.

“I… I don’t know,” Eskel admitted. Jaskier could hear the uncertainty in his voice. “It looks like…”

“What happened to him?” a third unfamiliar voice spoke unexpectantly, causing Jaskier to flinch in surprise at the sudden interruption. Jaskier forced his vision to focus on the newcomer, but his head hurt from straining his eyes so soon after his episode. A pained groan pushed past his lips as he pinched his eyes close in a desperate attempt to keep the migraine at bay. Jaskier tried to rise to a seated position, but his efforts were stalled by a large hand on his chest pressing him down.

“He suddenly collapsed and started screaming in pain. And there’s also this… _mark_ on his chest. Not sure if it was there before.”

A mark? Jaskier could not recall ever having any marks anywhere on his body apart from the odd freckle or mole here and there. His hand instinctively reached up to rest on his chest. The area was not scalding hot any longer, but it did feel tender to the touch. Jaskier was not sure what could have occasioned such a sensation. A deafening silence filled the forest around them, disturbed only by the distant snorting of the horses. Eventually Jaskier managed to adjust his eyes to the dim light of the torches without feeling excruciating pain. He did not recognise the man crouching next to him, although he guessed from the colloquial tone that he belonged to the group of witchers. The familiar yellow eyes also indicated a potential affiliation.

“Who are you?” Jaskier asked, mustering courage he did not know he possessed to address the newcomer who, for all he knew, shared Lambert’s opinion and wanted any human trespassing to die a horrible death. Unsurprisingly, the stranger did not dignify Jaskier with an answer.

“He’s too weak to walk. He’ll have to ride on one of the horses,” the stranger said, the deep timbre of his voice reverberating deep in Jaskier’s stomach. The ‘mark’ on his chest suddenly came alive again as a pleasant warmth spread through his chest and all the way to his fingertips. 

“Jaskier, are you alright?” Ciri asked, her voice soft and kind. Jaskier was too dumbstruck to respond as his mind was too busy trying to make sense of what had just happened to him to string anything close to a coherent sentence.

“He’s in shock,” commented Eskel.

“He was fine when I left. When did it start?” the stranger enquired, causing Jaskier to pause. Could this be…?

“Shortly after you left, actually,” Lambert provided in a pensive tone, “one minute he was fine, and the next he was on the floor howling so loudly I was worried he would attract predators to our camp. Ciri insisted we wait for you.”

“That was not necessary. I can handle myself.”

“Try telling her that,” Eskel retorted, although Jaskier could hear the softness in his tone, “She used Vesemir’s words against us, Geralt. What were we supposed to do? The pup can play us like fiddles.”

So _this_ was the mysterious Geralt in human form. Far from what Jaskier had initially envisioned. Broad-shouldered, grey-white hair reaching past his shoulders and loosely tied together at the back of the head, a shadow of a beard adorning the chiselled jawline and an angry red scar on the left side of his face. Facial scars seemed to be a witcher’s hallmark, Jaskier mused as he admired the man crouching over him. Geralt was heavily clad in thick leather armour which made him appear even larger and more intimidating. Were it not for the deep frown and palpable tension in the air, Jaskier was inclined to see Geralt as a handsome man. Had the circumstances of their meeting been any different, say if their paths had crossed in a tavern for instance, Jaskier would have definitely tried to sweet-talk his way into Geralt’s bed.

“You’re the wolf who pinned me down,” Jaskier mumbled almost as an afterthought. His brain still had not fully caught up with the situation. “You scared the living daylights out of me, you know?” Geralt ignored Jaskier’s comment in favour of placing a large hand on the bard’s forehead to check his body temperature.

“He’s feverish. Elevated heartbeat.”

“Maybe what triggered the aches in the first place,” Lambert suggested, but Geralt quickly dismissed the thought with a shake of the head.

“I could hear his screams from miles away. That kind of pain is not triggered by fever,” said Geralt. The witcher retracted his hand and rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving Jaskier. The bard suddenly felt self-conscious under the scrutiny and averted the intense yellow eyes carefully studying him.

“Maybe Vesemir will know,” Eskel offered.

“Maybe, but that’s not the reason we’re taking him to Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt’s tone indicated that the discussion was over. Jaskier felt a sharp pain in his chest comparable to having his chest hair plucked (which, of course, Jaskier had done many times before – some lovers appreciated smooth skin more than others) as Geralt moved away from him. He thought nothing of it as Eskel helped him rise to his feet and motioned for Jaskier to follow him to his chestnut mare.

“Easy there, Eimyr,” Eskel coaxed the horse gently as he adjusted her bridles and mouthpiece. Jaskier was unable to stifle his giggle in time, which earned him a questioning look from Eskel.

“Sorry, I… did you know that ‘Eimyr’ means hedgehog in Elder Speech?” Jaskier questioned Eskel as another involuntary giggle left him. “I’m sorry, I… I’m not mocking you, I just think it’s – well, _sweet_ for a lack of better word,” he admitted, hoping that Eskel had not taken offence to his reaction. To Jaskier’s surprise, a small smile appeared on the witcher’s lips.

“The first thing I saw after buying her was a dead hedgehog on the side of the road. That’s where the name came from,” Eskel explained as he helped Jaskier into the saddle.

“Oh, well that’s… charming.”

“I like to think it’s original,” Eskel hopped into the saddle behind Jaskier and grabbed the reins tightly in his hand. Eimyr sighed at the added weight, but otherwise did not complain as her rider spurted her on by gently nudging her flanks with the heel of his boots. Jaskier’s back was pressed against Eskel’s firm chest, and although the close proximity to the witcher would have made anyone uncomfortable, Jaskier felt oddly safe. The bard’s gaze wandered to Geralt once more, but the grey haired witcher had his back turned on him as he listened to Ciri’s account of the events. 

“That’s one way to put it,” said Lambert as he tightened the strap of his horse’s saddle, “Eskel, the poet. You called your previous horse evall because you couldn’t think of a better name other than ‘horse’.”

“At least I don’t call all my horses Roach… is that right, Geralt?”

“Less talking, we need to reach the keep fast. The air is heavy with snow. I want to reach Kaer Morhen before the human freezes to death,” was all Geralt said in response to Lambert’s taunt.

“My name is Jaskier!” said human corrected through clenched teeth. Geralt’s eyes met Jaskier’s but this time, the bard held the witcher’s stare and refused to look away. When crouched over him, Geralt appeared far more imposing than he did now. Jaskier allowed his raised position and Eskel’s proximity to embolden him into defying Geralt’s stern glare. The bard had plenty of practice at appearing more confident than he truly felt. His father had taught him from a young age that fear was man’s greatest weakness. Admittedly, Jaskier was at a disadvantage and in no position to fight the witchers even if he knew how to, but that was certainly no reason to treat him like a criminal when Jaskier had done nothing to deserve such a treatment. If anything, they should all be grateful that Jaskier happened upon Ciri and Geralt when he did or they would presently be mourning the death of one of their own.

“My apologies. I want to reach Kaer Morhen before Jaskier freezes to death,” Geralt eventually rectified.

The way his name rolled off Geralt’s tongue made Jaskier feel unexpectedly weak in the knees.

OoO

“Are you good at what you do, bard?” Eskel asked him out of the blue.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Any good songs you can sing until we reach the keep?” Eskel reformulated his question patiently.

“Oh yes, please sing us a song, master Jaskier,” Ciri begged before Jaskier could respond to Eskel’s enquiry. The young girl looked so enthusiastic, her cerulean blues eyes sparkling with barely contained excitement as she flashed Jaskier a wide smile. How could he say no to that face?

“I haven’t composed anything new for a while, but I suppose you lot will not have heard any of my previous work. I’m afraid it won’t sound the same without a lute,” Jaskier lamented, wondering if someone had already sold his precious instrument for a hefty sum. He would probably never see his lute again. It had been the last gift his mother had given him before she passed away from the plague, just after Jaskier had left the family home for Oxenfurt. He felt a pang in his chest as thoughts of his late mother flooded his mind.

“We’re not a fussy audience,” Ciri reassured him.

“If you must sing, at least spare us the love ballads,” Lambert piped up, earning himself a reprimanding look from Ciri.

“Why? Maybe I wanted to hear a love ballad!”

“Love ballads are nothing but frivolous fairy tales. There’s no such thing as true love or soulmates. What’s the point singing about things that don’t exist?”

Jaskier could not tell if this was Lambert winding Ciri up, or if the witcher genuinely felt that way. The bard hoped it was not the latter. Love was the only magic he had ever believed in until very recently. Love was a powerful and versatile thing. The romantic love between two people, a mother’s love for her children, a child’s love for their family pet, brotherly love, platonic love… all these variants were all valid and heart-moving in their own ways. Jaskier had always looked for the beauty in love, but he was well-aware that love could be painful, cruel and ugly. His parents had been trapped in a loveless marriage, and it was only his mother’s love for him that convinced her to stay, in spite of her husband’s hits and the insults he spat at her every day. Jaskier had of course been at the receiving end of a broken heart on several occasions, but he had never lost hope that one day he would find the right person. He was not sure whether he believed in soulmates or not, but the notion was romantic and Jaskier loved to incorporate this trope in his ballads.

However, Jaskier had also learned to always adapt to the crowd’s desires.

“Well, I want to listen to a love ballad,” Ciri argued back in a petulant tone.

“I’d rather throw myself off this cliff,” Lambert countered in similar fashion.

“Shut up, the both of you,” Geralt snapped, silencing both Ciri and Lambert. Jaskier watched the scene with amusement. He guessed, judging by their personalities, that Geralt and Eskel were the older members of the group. “We’re almost there, so you two spare me the bickering.”

“Surely you can come up with a new song for us now, bard,” Eskel swiftly changed the subject in an attempt to ease the tension.

“You mean right this instant?”

“It _is_ your profession. I assume as a travelling bard you are no stranger to improvisation.”

Jaskier wished he were as talented at improvising as Eskel made him out to be. The truth was that Jaskier felt lost without his lute, paper and quill. He would spend most of his time on the road coming up with rhymes, jotting them down and plucking at the strings of his lute. Singing without being accompanied by the sound of his beloved instrument did not only feel _wrong_ , but it was also completely out of Jaskier’s comfort zone. Unknown terrains, but nothing Jaskier could not overcome. All he needed was a suitable muse. He found that writing verses _for_ someone had always come easiest to him. His eyes met Ciri’s expectant gaze as she cast a look over her shoulder. Sweet friendly Ciri who stuck out like a sore thumb among these hardened witchers.

“Alright then, here goes… _you think you’re safe, without a care, but here in these lands you’d be wise to beware. The pike with the spike that lurks in your drawers, or the flying drake that will fill you with horror. Need old Nan the Hag to stir up a potion so that your lady may get an abortion._ ”

“For the love of… we have _innocent ears_ here!” Lambert cried out loud, earning himself a glare from Ciri.

“Is that truly the best you can do?” Eskel enquired, his tone barely concealing his disappointment. Jaskier did his best not to flinch.

“I have lacked inspiration recently,” Jaskier defended himself, forcing a smile on his lips, “but no doubt when you let me go I will sing of the chivalry of witchers who spare the lives of innocent humans who dare wander too closely to their keep. I could perhaps be your barker, maybe even improve your image. People won’t see you as heartless brutes, but as virtuous knights when I’m done telling your heroic tale!”

“Spare us, bard,” Lambert groaned, “you would probably do more bad than good with your poor skills.”

“What about you, Geralt?” Jaskier found himself asking, “what have you got to say about my singing? Come on, what’s your review, three words or less.”

Geralt did not reply straight away, and Jaskier considered it a win that the witcher had yet to tell him to fuck off.

“They don’t exist,” Geralt finally provided after long minutes of silence. Jaskier frowned in confusion.

“What don’t exist?”

“The creatures in your song.”

Well, that was unexpected to say the least. Jaskier had anticipated everything from insults to dismissal, but this comment had not featured on the list of possible responses the bard had expected Geralt to provide. It only perplexed Jaskier further.

“Alright, other than the content, how was my singing?” Jaskier prodded further.

“It’s like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling.”

Jaskier scoffed indignantly at those words, momentarily at loss for what to say. He had never _ever_ been so plainly insulted by _anyone_. Somehow, the fact that Geralt had been the one to utter these words made the pill ever so hard to swallow. Jaskier had expected that kind of remark from Lambert. The bard could not explain why it bothered him so much that Geralt seemed to abhor his singing with such passion.

“ _You_ need a _nap_.”

Perhaps Jaskier was still hallucinating, but he thought he heard Geralt chuckle under his breath. _Dick_. Jaskier was silent for the remaining of the journey. He found himself dosing off until Eskel’s mare broke into a sudden gallop as they finally came closer to their destination. Kaer Morhen, the witchers’ keep. Jaskier never thought he would ever live to see the day where _he_ of all people got to lay eyes on the fabled fortress. He merely wished the circumstances for his visit were different. Jaskier dared a look over his shoulder, noticing the pink and purple hues that tinted the sky.

The sun was rising over Kaer Morhen, bringing with it a new day and new hopes. Jaskier’s heart dropped in his chest. He truly hoped this would not be the last sunrise he ever saw.

TBC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Jaskier sings (which I put in italics in the text) is taken from the Witcher TV show. It's the song Jaskier sings in Posada, and I do not own the lyrics for that. All credits to the writers of the show. 
> 
> With this little disclaimer out of the way, I do hope that you guys enjoyed this chapter. The pace will soon pick up in the following chapters now that Jaskier has finally reached Kaer Morhen.
> 
> Hope everyone is keeping safe. Yours truly, Rose_SK x


	5. Chapter Five

“Fucking fools,” Vesemir muttered under his breath, “you all act like you share a single braincell between the four of you, and right now it seems like none of you is making good use of it!”

Geralt noticed the way Lambert, Eskel and Ciri flinched at the insult but Geralt managed to keep a straight face as he leaned against one of the imposing columns supporting the ceiling of the fortress. The human, Jaskier as he preferred to be called, was standing in the middle of the dining hall facing Vesemir, looking as bashful as a child being scolded by his father. Geralt could only imagine how the human felt under the older witcher’s scrutiny; that glare had the power to make any witcher shake in their boots. Only Jaskier was no longer the focus of Vesemir’s attention as the older witcher directed his frustration towards those responsible for the human’s very presence within the walls of Kaer Morhen.

“Have you got any idea what consequences bringing a human to the fortress could have on us? On our lives? Do _none of you_ realise the severity of the situation?” Vesemir questioned, his voice resounding against the bare walls of the dining hall. “What if his kin come looking for him? What if he has an army following him, and _you_ lot have lead them right to us?”

“I assure you master witcher, none of what you’re saying is – “

“Quiet!” Vesemir barked, effectively shutting up the bard mid-sentence. Jaskier recoiled away from Vesemir, his eyes widening in fear as he stared helplessly at the older witcher. Geralt could not help but feel for the terrified human. For a short while, all that could be heard was the crackling of the fire burning in the hearth and casting a dim light across the room.

“Uncle Vesemir…,” it was Ciri who spoke up first, although her voice was barely above a whisper, “it’s all my fault.”

The admission took everyone by surprise, including Geralt. Vesemir had clearly not expected those words from Ciri judging by the raised eyebrow and puzzled expression. Ciri swallowed past the lump in her throat before briefly meeting Geralt’s gaze for encouragement. After taking a composing breath, the girl stepped forward and explained herself to Vesemir.

“I begged Lambert and Eskel to spare Jaskier. I would not let anyone hurt him as a matter of principle. He saved me, uncle Vesemir. Without him, I…,” Ciri left her sentence hanging in the air, but her implication was crystal clear in everyone’s minds. Geralt tried not to think of what could have happened had the human not appeared when he did. “Without Jaskier’s intervention, I would not be here to defend him today. He saved me from a certain death, and I didn’t think it was fair to have him killed just for being close to the fortress.”

Geralt noticed that Jaskier’s eyes often lingered on him longer than strictly necessary, almost as if the human were appraising him with those cerulean blue eyes of his. The only reason Geralt noticed was because he himself, for some unfathomable reason, could not take his eyes off Jaskier. Something about the human captivated Geralt’s attention, but the witcher could not quite determine the exact reason for his newfound fascination for the bard. The tingling sensation in his right hand was becoming beyond irritating and Geralt was convinced that Jaskier was somehow responsible for it, although he could not prove it beyond the fact that before he and Jaskier had crossed paths Geralt had never felt anything remotely similar to it. 

“Yes, what _did_ happen out there?” Vesemir asked, this time directing his question at Ciri and Geralt.

“A wild dog attack,” Geralt supplied, knowing that he had been responsible for their safety and that Ciri could not possibly be held accountable for what had happened, “they took us by surprise. We were just about to head back to the keep when they attacked us by the river. We were outnumbered.”

“It’s not Geralt’s fault, uncle Vesemir,” Ciri interjected, earning herself a scorning look from the older witcher who did not appreciate the young girl’s interruption. Ciri pursed her lips and lowered her eyes, allowing Geralt to finish his tale uninterrupted.

“Ciri got hurt during the fight. The wound was deep, and she was losing a lot of blood. We found shelter in a nearby cave, from where I raised the alarm – “

“About that,” Vesemir cut Geralt off unexpectantly, his tone firm and unforgiving, “when you call for help, Geralt, you stay in the same position until help gets to you! I would have expected Ciri to not understand this concept, but _you_ of all people… what were you thinking, exactly? Why did you leave the cave?”

Geralt was briefly at loss for word, unsure how to respond to Vesemir’s questions in a manner that would appease the old witcher’s ire. Geralt had messed up in so many ways. He had allowed Ciri to get hurt. He would never have forgiven himself if she had died from her wounds back in the cave. Vesemir had every right to be angry at Geralt.

“After Ciri miraculously recovered, I thought it was best to get as far away from the human as possible. I figured we would meet the search party on the way.”

“Foolish!” Vesemir snapped viciously before turning his attention back to Ciri, “explain to me how that human saved you, child. And speak up, will you!”

“I…,” Ciri’s tongue darted out to lick her lips, a nervous tick she had displayed ever since Geralt had taken her in and one which she had never quite managed to shake, “I remember lying in that cave, and every muscle in my body hurting. I could not think of anything else apart from this horrible pain in my side and trying to keep awake. Then Jaskier came in, Geralt tackled him but then… Jaskier told him that he could help me. He had a salve that he applied to my wound, and suddenly the pain was gone. It was as if I had never been injured. Uncle Vesemir, you have to believe me. Jaskier means us no harm…”

“That’s enough!” Vesemir dismissed Ciri with a wave of the hand and turned to face Jaskier once more. Geralt saw the human wince in fear as he once again became the centre of Vesemir’s attention. Geralt felt a sudden and incomprehensible urge to step between the human and the older witcher. He remained stoic, however, his amber eyes darting between Jaskier and Vesemir as he observed the situation silently.

“Tell me, Jaskier… how did you find us? And what kind of sorcery did you use to heal the girl?”

“I, uh…,” Jaskier stuttered, his eyes darting between Vesemir, Ciri and Geralt frantically as he desperately tried to string together a coherent sentence, “Master witcher, sir, I assure you that I am as flabbergasted and dismayed as you are. Believe me when I say that I wish just as much as you to find out what exactly happened to me, but I’m afraid I’m as clueless as…”

“Spare us the metaphors and eloquent jibber-jabber, human,” said Vesemir, “and get to the point. I asked you two simple questions, to which I expect simple answers.”

“I don’t _have_ the answers!” Jaskier cried out, the tremor in his voice betraying both his fear and frustration at his predicament, “I _don’t know_ how I got here! The last thing I remember was leaving a tavern after performing in a small Redanian village, and then I woke up in the middle of nowhere not knowing how I got there, or how much time I was unconscious for. What I do remember is getting a vial from an old hag as payment for my performance containing a salve capable, in the hag’s own words, of healing any wounds. I used that on Ciri, but I swear that I am in no way magical myself. This is all a big misunderstanding, please you have to believe me.”

“Is that so? Then why does my medallion hum like a thousand beehives when you are close, human?” Vesemir questioned, earning himself an annoyed groan from the human which Geralt found oddly amusing. It was painfully obvious that Jaskier had no idea who he was dealing with, or he would have known better than to openly direct his irritability at Vesemir. However, Geralt could not help but admire the human’s audacity.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier finally said through clenched teeth, enunciating every word as he met Vesemir’s glare, “Two days ago I was convinced that magic was extinct, a relic of the past. In a matter of hours, I have witnessed a salve magically heal a festering wound, discovered that shapeshifting witchers are not, in fact, legends but very much _real_ and apparently out to kill any human who _dares_ wander too closely to their precious fortress… and now you also want me to believe that your medallion can _sense_ magic? In _me_? I have had my fair share of weird for a lifetime, if you don’t mind. I am tired, hungry and sore, my head feels like it’s going to explode, and _something_ happened to me out there that made me experience _the worst_ pain I have ever felt in my life. So I do apologise, master witcher, if I am unable to answer your questions, but unfortunately I don’t have the answers you are looking for and intimidation will not make matters any easier, for you or me.”

Everyone fell silent following Jaskier’s rant, tension palpable in the air as they became mute witnesses to the stand-off between Vesemir and the human. Eskel’s hand rested comfortably on the hilt of his sword, ready to strike if things got out of hand, while Lambert’s glare burned a hole at the back of Jaskier’s head. Ciri’s eyes darted between Vesemir and Jaskier, and Geralt could tell by her increased heartrate that the situation made her anxious. Meanwhile, Geralt did not make a move. He knew Vesemir had much more experience dealing with disobedient and provocative young boys than anyone present in the room, and was therefore perfectly capable of giving Jaskier a dressing down without anyone’s help.

“I appreciate your fire, boy, but be careful not to grow too big for your boots. Last time I checked, you are still at a clear disadvantage here, and thanks to these clowns, your life is apparently in my hands. In the future, I would strongly recommend watching your tone when addressing me!” Vesemir warned, leaving no room for argument.

“Kill me if you must,” Jaskier replied and Geralt could hear the exhaustion in the young human’s voice, “just make it quick and merciful. Anything is better than being eaten by wolves, or bears, or gods know what else roams in these parts of the world.”

Whether Jaskier truly meant these words or not, Geralt felt his stomach churn at the thought of anything happening to the human. It dawned on Geralt that the last thing he wanted was for any harm to come to Jaskier, a reaction so absurd and bizarre that the witcher began to wonder if he was perhaps dreaming, or he was under the influence of strong hallucinogens. It was not unheard of for him, Eskel and Lambert to get high off psychedelic mushrooms found in caves not far away from the fortress. He was clearly getting too old for that kind of activity.

“No one will kill you tonight,” Ciri suddenly declared, addressing Vesemir directly, “Uncle Vesemir, isn’t it true that the witchers of Kaer Morhen never let a favour go unrewarded? Jaskier saved my life, we’ve established that. The least we can do, according to _your_ teachings, is see to Jaskier’s health in return for saving my life.”

“The human is in perfect health,” Lambert interjected, confusion lacing his tone, “what exactly do you want us to do, Ciri?”

“Is he really?” the young woman questioned rhetorically, earning herself quizzical looks all-round, “are you all going to pretend that Jaskier’s seizure in the forest didn’t happen? Or was I the only one who noticed him collapse and howl in pain?”

“What are you talking about, child?” Vesemir asked and Geralt sensed that the older witcher was slowly losing his patience. “Explain yourself, preferably today if that’s not too much to ask!”

“Back in the forest, we had to briefly stop so Geralt could shift back into his human form. As soon as he disappeared, something happened… Jaskier, he fell and started screaming in pain, but we could not find any signs of injury on him other than…,” Ciri paused, looking over her shoulder at Eskel for support.

“Other than what, pup?”

“Other than a mark on his chest,” Eskel finished the sentence in Ciri’s place, “similar to a burn but… it was not our doing. It just… appeared, out of nowhere.”

“Burn marks don’t just _appear_!” Vesemir stated matter-of-factly, “What happened after that?”

“The pain seemed to stop as soon as… as soon as Geralt returned,” Eskel said. If Vesemir felt surprise at the revelation, he did a good job at hiding it. All Geralt noticed was the slight tensing of the older witcher’s jaw and a slight twitching of the brow as his mind processed the new information he had received. Geralt heard Jaskier’s heartrate pick up, whether in fear or trepidation was unclear. The bard’s deep blue eyes met his, and to Geralt’s surprise, the human’s lips twitched into a small smile that did not quite reach Jaskier’s eyes, but which still stirred up an unfamiliar sensation in the pit of Geralt’s stomach. The pins and needles in his hand intensified, forcing Geralt to rub his left thumb over his right palm in the hopes it would appease the tingling sensation. He had no luck there.

“This is far from being ideal,” Vesemir said after a short while to no one in particular, “and I hate how easily you are able to use my own words against me, Ciri. Although I have to admit you’re right. You three escort Jaskier to the kitchen and have some food, then show Jaskier to a room. No arguing, no sulking, no whining and no terrorising the human, understood Lambert?”

“Why is everyone _always_ singling me out?” Lambert complained in a huff, shooting Jaskier yet another vicious glare.

“I said no whining,” Vesemir repeated firmly before turning his attention to Geralt, “as for you, I’m not done with you yet. You’re coming with me.”

Geralt pushed himself off the wall and followed Vesemir out of the dining hall, casting one last look at Jaskier who let out a breath of relief and finally indulged Ciri’s incessant questioning. Those two would get on like a house on fire, which was precisely what worried Geralt. He hoped Ciri did not get too attached to the human. He did not want to see her get hurt if it turned out that they had to wipe Jaskier’s memory and send him away, or worse yet, kill him on the off chance that he turned out to be a Nilfgaardian spy. Geralt willed those thoughts away, deciding that they would cross that bridge when they got to it.

OoO

“I want to you to tell me _exactly_ what happened in that cave, Geralt,” said Vesemir as soon as he and Geralt reached the courtyard and were safely out of the other witchers’ earshot, “don’t leave out any details.”

Geralt sighed in resignation. “Alright,” was all he said as he took a seat a on a nearby wooden bench overlooking the mountain pass, which in the mid-morning sunlight looked as breath-taking as ever, “After I sounded the alarm, it started to rain heavily. The human – Jaskier took shelter in the cave not long after that. He did not see us at first, he had his back turned to us. I took the opportunity to pounce at him and pin him to the ground. I wanted to make sure he would not be a threat to Ciri. I tried to intimidate him, which worked. I figured if he was scared enough he would not try anything funny. When he noticed that Ciri was hurt, he said that he had something that could help her get better. I know I took a risk, Vesemir, you can spare me the lecture on trusting perfect strangers. I was desperate, and Ciri was dying from her wound. I did what I thought was right!”

“Did you feel anything strange when you pinned the human to the ground?”

Of all the questions Vesemir could have asked, Geralt had not been expecting that one. He frowned in confusion, but nonetheless indulged the older witcher.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you exactly, but I guess that when I was pressing him down my pads suddenly felt hot, like the contact with the human burned them. It wasn’t painful, just unexpected.”

“What else, Geralt. Please, it’s important…,” Vesemir pressed him, his tone growing serious.

“It was like my blood was on fire. I could feel it streaming through me like I never have before. I couldn’t react for a split second, almost as if I went in shock. Then there was this brief moment where I felt… happy, for lack of better word. I momentarily forgot that Ciri was dying, and all unpleasant memories… well, vanished. It didn’t last long, though.”

“Where did you touch the human when you were pinning him to the ground?” was Vesemir’s follow-up question. Geralt met the older witcher’s eyes and thought he saw something close to worry flash in Vesemir’s amber eyes. Geralt suddenly felt uneasy.

“My front paws were on his chest…,” the younger witcher admitted after a short pause.

“And how are your hands now?”

Geralt tensed, unsure where Vesemir was going with this but feeling like his mentor was hiding something from him nonetheless. Geralt balled his right hand into a fist, an action which he had hoped would appease the tingling sensation but which only made him more aware of it. Vesemir noticed, of course; hardly anything went unnoticed by the old witcher. Vesemir wordlessly grabbed Geralt’s right hand and checked the palm for _something_ , although Geralt was not too sure what exactly the older witcher expected to find there.

“What are you not telling me?” It was Geralt’s turn to ask a question, although Vesemir seemed far less inclined to answer his. A heavy sigh pushed past his mentor’s lips as Vesemir began pacing back and forth.

“I don’t know anything for certain yet, Geralt. I don’t want to worry you unnecessarily before I have more information and more conclusive evidence that… that Jaskier’s fit in the forest was somehow related to your transformation.”

“Vesemir, you cannot possibly believe – “

“I don’t know what to believe, Geralt,” Vesemir interrupted him sharply, “and believe me, I don’t want to be right on this one. If my suspicions are founded, then having a human knowing about our secret will be the very least of our problems.”

“Don’t you think I should know about this issue if it’s so serious?” Geralt did not bother hiding his irritation with the older witcher any longer, “Or do you simply expect me to pretend like we never had this conversation and go about my day ignoring that there’s a human in the keep for the first time in over a century?”

“Do not give me that attitude, boy! You know better.”

“At least tell me what this is all about, Vesemir. I’m not a child, I can handle it,” Geralt argued, rising to his feet and crossing his arms before his broad chest. Vesemir sighed once again.

“See Geralt, I don’t think you _can._ Give me until tomorrow morning to do research, alright? I need to be absolutely sure what we’re talking about. Geralt, I don’t want to worry you unnecessarily, or anyone else for that matter. Go have some food and rest. We’ll talk again in the morning.”

“But Vesemir…”

“No ‘buts’, Geralt,” the old witcher snapped, his tone indicating that the conversation was over. Geralt knew he stood no chance against his mentor’s stubbornness.

“Fine. But there better be a good reason for all this secrecy!”

Geralt turned around and walked back to the palace, unaware that Vesemir’s worried eyes followed his every step until Geralt was out of sight.

OoO

“Geralt?” a soft voice called out to him, interrupting his meditation, “I can’t sleep.”

“Neither can I,” Geralt admitted. He did not need to open his eyes to know that Ciri was standing right next to his bed, waiting for Geralt’s permission to climb in bed with him like she did so often when he first brought her to the keep. “Come on, then.”

Geralt made space for Ciri, allowing the girl to lay down next to him. Her arm was pressed against his and she was now close enough that Geralt could hear her steady heartbeat. He opened his eyes and tilted his head so he could look at her face. Ciri stared blankly at the ceiling, her fingers idly playing with the sheets. There was something on her mind, but Geralt knew better than to pressure her.

“Are you mad at me?” she suddenly asked, her voice barely above a whisper and riddled with insecurity.

“Is there a reason why I should be?”

“I insisted we take Jaskier back. I’m the reason we’re in this mess.” Geralt sighed at Ciri’s words. 

“You can’t be held responsible for this. You were right, we could not kill him after he saved your life. If anything, you made me proud.”

Geralt’s words brought a smile to Ciri’s lips, a sight which warmed the witcher’s heart. After the events of the previous day, Geralt had not seen much of his ward. She had been showing Jaskier around the keep, to everyone’s dismay, but the girl seemed so happy to have someone other than grumpy witchers to speak to that no one had the heart to tell her off. Having this late-night conversation with her reminded Geralt of the early days, when the girl would still seek comfort in his bed at night after a nightmare or when she felt anxious in her room alone. The memories were enough to make him feel nostalgic. Ciri suddenly shifted so she was propped on her right arm and staring straight at Geralt with a pensive expression plastered on her face. Something was still bothering her.

“You know, Jaskier is not all bad. I don’t think he’s bad at all, actually. He’s polite, well-spoken, educated… he told me he’s a Viscount. He reminds me on one of my tutors my grandmother hired to teach me about Cintran art and history. I know you’re all suspicious of him, but I happen to think that he’s a good man. All he wants is to go back to his life.”

“A viscount? He told us he’s a travelling bard…”

“It’s surprising how much you can learn from someone if you actually take an interest in their lives. You should try it sometime,” Ciri told Geralt, and there was no mistaking the scolding tone she had employed. The witcher decided to ignore the remark. Ciri understood his silence for what it was and promptly changed the topic of conversation.

“So, what did uncle Vesemir want to talk about?”

“What do you think? He lectured me on letting you get hurt on your first proper hunt. Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Geralt lied, hoping that Ciri would drop the subject.

“It was about Jaskier, wasn’t it?” Ciri guessed correctly, “About what happened in the forest when you disappeared?”

“How did you know about that?”

“I didn’t… you just confirmed my hunch.”

 _Fuck_. Geralt let out a frustrated sigh at being outwitted by a sixteen-year-old human. She had learned from the best, he reminded himself. Ciri did her best to look ashamed, but only managed to look pleased with herself.

“So, what does Vesemir think?”

“He didn’t tell me much,” Geralt admitted reluctantly, “and he did not confirm a correlation between my transformation and the human’s fit.”

“I see…” Ciri let out a long yawn as she settled more comfortably on the mattress and huddled closer to Geralt’s warm body, “wouldn’t it be amazing if you two were somehow linked?”

“Linked?”

“Yeah … what if you were destined to meet Jaskier for a long time? Like your meeting was written in the stars from the day Jaskier was born.”

Ciri’s voice was muffled and heavy with sleep, and Geralt was convinced she was already in a partial state of sleep if she was coming up with theories as nonsensical as Geralt and Jaskier being linked by destiny. Geralt did not believe in destiny. Destiny was a whole heap of horseshit, which helped people believe there was an order to this world in which children died daily of the plague, or in which people were murdered by those more powerful than them, a world in which women abandoned their children at the doorstep of Kaer Morhen to be trained as witchers, although only three in ten boys survived the mutations. People put too much faith in destiny by attributing all the shitty decisions they made in their lifetime to a wilful providence which determined their life trajectory as early as childhood.

Absolute dogshit. 

“I don’t think that’s the case, little one. Go to sleep.”

Ciri was already fast asleep judging by the soft snoring that made Geralt smile despite himself. He gently wrapped one arm around her and closed his eyes, hoping that sleep would find him as easily as it had his young protégé.

TBC.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love, love, love this chapter so much, so hopefully you guys will too!
> 
> Thank you again for your unconditional support. This story would not exist without you readers encouraging me to write more. Thank you, thank you, thank you! xx

Although Jaskier felt exhausted, no amount of tossing and turning managed to send him to sleep. When he and his captors had reached the keep that morning, the bard would have happily fallen asleep on any surface no matter how uncomfortable. In truth, he had expected to be thrown in the dungeons while the witchers sealed his faith. Jaskier had been pleasantly surprised when Vesemir had instructed the witchers to show Jaskier to the kitchen and demanded that he be treated well during his stay. All thought of sleeping were pushed to the backburner at the prospect of food. Jaskier had filled his gurgling stomach with fruit that tasted slightly too soft, hard bread that had seen better days and dried meat which he had washed down with watered-down ale, and yet the bard could not remember the last time he had felt so satisfied after a meal. Ciri had been the only one who had shown any interest in engaging in a conversation with the human. Jaskier instantly knew that he and Ciri would get on well; not only did he owe her his life, she also seemed genuinely interested in his life and his work. Ciri had asked pertinent questions without ulterior motive and without expecting Jaskier to reveal more about himself that he felt comfortable sharing. She had not interrogated him, but instead was getting to know him. For the first time since running into the band of witchers, Jaskier did not feel like their prisoner thanks to Ciri. She was motivated by child-like curiosity which Jaskier found refreshing, but which also made him realise just how young Ciri was. He had wanted to ask her so many questions about herself, but Ciri had evaded many and Jaskier knew how to take a hint. He had not pried out of respect for the young girl who had treated him with nothing but kindness since their first meeting.

After Ciri had had her fill of anecdotes their conversation had moved to more light-hearted topics. Jaskier had found out that the young girl was surprisingly knowledgeable on the topic of Cintra as well as being well-versed in the practices of sword-fighting, hunting and tracking, undoubtedly something she had picked up while living at Kaer Morhen. Ciri could also name and describe the behavioural and biological properties of various monsters that Jaskier had only ever heard of in legends, fairytales and songs. Meanwhile, Jaskier had shared his favourite poems with her, had sung his favourite childhood lullabies to her and also revealed that he grew up in his family’s estate as the son of the Earl of Lettenhove. Ciri seemed to take a particular interest in his aristocratic heritage and were it not for the circumstances Jaskier would have suspected Ciri to belong to nobility herself. Jaskier had however refrained from asking too many questions about the other witchers, suspecting that Ciri would be just as evasive in her answers. They had talked about anything and everything until the afternoon sun began to set, casting the valley in a warm glow despite the chilliness in the air. Ciri had then proceeded to show Jaskier around the keep’s premises, starting with the courtyard which served as training grounds, weather permitting, then moving on to the stables, the dining hall, the kitchen, the armoury and finally ending the tour by guiding Jaskier to his room. She had informed him that her room was at the end of the hall, next to Geralt’s, and had encouraged Jaskier to let her know if he needed anything. Up until this point, Jaskier had very nearly forgotten about Geralt. Nearly… yet as soon as Ciri had spoken the name, Jaskier was reminded of the mysterious witcher who had spared his life in that cave. It was all downhill from there. Jaskier’s mind was racing as it attempted to process the events of the previous day, which made it impossible for the bard to succumb to sleep for longer than an hour at a time. Thoughts of the brooding witcher invaded his mind as soon as Jaskier’s head hit the pillow. Mysterious Geralt with the fascinating yellow eyes. The few times that Jaskier’s eyes had met Geralt’s had left the bard hypnotised. While Eskel’s eyes reminded Jaskier of ripe barley and Lambert’s of rich honey, Geralt’s eyes were a warmer, richer shade of yellow. They evoked large fields of dandelions on a clear summer day… yes, dandelions… the comparison prompted a soft smile to grace Jaskier’s lips.

The twittering and chirping of birds soon filled Jaskier’s room and announced the start of a new day. Jaskier would get to see another sunrise, after all. Jaskier wrapped the thin sheets around his shivering body and dragged a wobbly-looking chair to the window so he could comfortably watch the sunrise. The view over the mountain pass in the light of the rising sun was nothing short of breathtaking. The valley below looked far less intimidating when viewed from inside the sanctuary that was Kaer Morhen. Jaskier was inclined to describe the scenery as picturesque, peaceful, tranquil… a view such as this one had the power to move any poet’s heart. Kaer Morhen had probably not seen many poets in its lifetime. Jaskier briefly wondered if the witchers also marvelled at the views that graced their eyes every morning, or whether they failed to see its beauty after years and years of solitude and shunning. Jaskier felt a sudden wave of inspiration, and in his excitement, scanned the room for his lute, paper and quill before realising that he did not possess any of these items anymore. A lump formed in his throat at the reminder. After all, what was a bard without his lute? A nobody, and nothing more.

“ _At the edge of the world, fight the mighty horde, that bashes and breaks you, and gives you the morn… oh-oh_ ,” Jaskier sang softly, the words flowing with ease while his fingers itched to pluck the chords of his lute or to jot down the verses in his notebook. Months without inspiration, and when it finally struck Jaskier was unable to immortalise the first verses of his new ballad. Typical. Jaskier admired the valley with a heavy heart, wishing he could turn back time and never set foot in that cursed village in the first place. Things could have been different if only he had picked any other village to perform in that day.

“ _Oh valley of plenty, oh valley of plenty_ …”

“I must admit, I prefer those verses to what you came up with on the way here,” a familiar voice which Jaskier recognised as Eskel’s interrupted his singing. Jaskier was startled by the sudden intrusion, not expecting any visitors so early in the morning. The following verses his mind had come up with caught in his throat as he jumped out of his chair and turned around to face Eskel, who was holding his hands up in surrender. “Easy, it’s just me. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“N-no, not to worry. Did my singing wake you?” the bard asked as he willed his racing heart to calm down.

“I was awake for a while, but when I heard you sing I thought I’d check on you. How are you feeling? You definitely sound chirpier,” Eskel remarked. Jaskier was taken aback by how friendly Eskel acted around him, but he figured it was better than being treated like an enemy or a prisoner. Jaskier managed a polite smile as he returned the sheets to the bed and faced Eskel.

“I suppose not being killed by a band of witchers will have that effect on someone. Also sleeping in an actual bed instead of in a dungeon cell does wonders or my mood,” Jaskier joked, but judging by Eskel’s frown the witcher took the bard’s words more personally than Jaskier had intended them.

“I know you may have got the impression that we witchers are nothing but heartless bloodthirsty killers, but please understand that we truly mean you no harm.”

“Your friend Lambert tried to kill me out there, and that just because of my human status. I’m sorry if it seems to you like I was jumping to conclusions,” Jaskier countered sarcastically, noticing the way Eskel tensed at his words.

“Lambert, he… he’s young, hot-tempered. He’s been through much, seen too many horrors caused by humans and… I’m not trying to defend him almost killing you out there, I just… just give him some time to get used to you. He’ll warm up to you eventually…”

“I’m sure he will,” said Jaskier dryly, suddenly not in the mood for casual chit-chat anymore. His eyes wandered back to the beautiful sunrise and the scene was enough to appease his mind. Eskel joined him and he was close enough to Jaskier that their shoulders almost touched. Both stared out the window silently for a while and were it not for Eskel clearing his throat, Jaskier would have forgotten the witcher was there.

“I can tell you’re more talented than what you first let on. I, for one, would love to hear more of your songs. Come with me, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Can we not discuss it here?” Jaskier asked, feeling slightly anxious at the thought of leaving the safety of his room. Eskel sensed his hesitation and heaved a deep sigh.

“I promise I won’t hurt you, bard. Vesemir made us promise, remember? I just want to talk, but fair enough. I understand your weariness. Give me a minute.”

With those words, Eskel left the room leaving behind a baffled Jaskier. Jaskier’s instincts told him that he could trust the witcher, that no harm would come to him if Eskel was around, but at the same time it was hard to trust anyone in this strange environment. Jaskier felt a shiver course through his body, but he was not sure if it was due to the cold or to his own uneasiness at his current predicament. While he waited for Eskel to return, Jaskier spotted a fireplace at the other side of the room, together with tools including pokers, tongs, spades and spades. He would have to remember to ask for some wood so he could light a fire at night for warmth. Not before long, Jaskier heard Eskel return to his room and braced himself for whatever conversation was to follow. The bard’s eyes grew when he saw what Eskel was holding in his hands.

“I got this as payment many years ago for saving a young merchant’s life from a pack of wargs,” Eskel explained as he presented Jaskier with a lute, “it’s probably not the best quality, but it’s better than no lute at all.”

Jaskier delicately lifted the lute to his face and examined the instrument more closely. The lute, made of spruce, was not extravagant by any means but the gesture nearly moved Jaskier to tears. He blamed his emotional reaction on the lack of sleep and on stress, but he could not deny the joy he felt while holding the instrument in his hand. He tested the chords by gently plucking at them; the sound it produced felt like coming home.

“Thank you,” Jaskier swallowed past the lump in his throat, “truly, thank you.”

“Vesemir should have quills and paper if you wish to write any of your ballads down. He usually spends most of his time in his room, or you can find him in the library.”

Were the circumstances any different, Jaskier might have embraced Eskel with how grateful he felt at the gift, however the bard realised that this may be inappropriate. He settled for a myriad of thanks instead. Eskel looked almost embarrassed at Jaskier’s gratitude.

“Don’t mention it. It was gathering dust in my room anyway.”

OoO

Jaskier knocked on Vesemir’s door before taking a deep composing breath as he awaited an answer. After a meagre breakfast consisting of dried fruit, some cheese and goat’s milk, Jaskier decided to fetch the lute Eskel had gifted him and request some paper, ink and quills from Vesemir. His plan was to spend the whole day in the courtyard working on his next ballad. Jaskier perhaps naively clung to the hope that he would one day get to perform this song to his eager audiences. When after a while there was still no answer from Vesemir, Jaskier knocked a second time. He vaguely remembered Eskel mentioning the library, so the bard decided to check it out if there was still no answer. Jaskier’s eyes wandered along the corridor where Ciri and Geralt’s room where. Geralt… something about that specific witcher captivated Jaskier’s mind. He was intrigued by the brooding witcher and felt an inherent need to learn more about him. It felt like there was an itch in Jaskier’s mind, an itch he could not scratch until he satisfied his curiosity. Perhaps if he knocked on Geralt’s door he would get an answer…

Jaskier deemed it more prudent to head to the library before he did something he would later regret. Surprisingly, the bard found the way to the library relatively easily and without getting lost. The quicker he got a hold of ink and paper, the quicker he could get to work. He focused on remembering the verses he had come up with the same morning. _At the edge of the world, fight the mighty horde…_ _Oh valley of plenty_. Jaskier was pleased, but he knew he could do better. He felt excited at the prospect of composing again.

“Geralt, calm down…”

“You promised you would tell me what this is all about, Vesemir!”

Jaskier slowed his step as he picked up bits of the conversation between Vesemir and Geralt. Judging by the tone employed by both, the witchers had been arguing over something.

“And I will, but not now. We have company.”

Jaskier tensed at Vesemir’s words and before he could turn around, the door to the library opened on a fuming Geralt and weary-looking Vesemir. Jaskier noticed Geralt’s glare directed at him, and for some unfathomable reason, the sight upset Jaskier. What had he done to earn himself Geralt’s ire?

“Bard… what can I do for you?”

“Oh, I uh… I was just hoping to find some paper and ink in the library. Eskel… Eskel mentioned something about-“

“Come in, there’s plenty in the cabinet near the window,” Vesemir said in an impatient tone before pointing demonstratively to the cabinet in question. Jaskier nodded and hurried inside, retrieving what he needed while feeling both Vesemir and Geralt’s intense gazes burning a hole in the back of his head. Tension was palpable in the air and Jaskier wished to leave the room as soon as possible.

“Geralt, go make sure Ciri is ready for her training. I’ll come find you later in the morning.”

“Vesemir-“

“Now, Geralt,” Vesemir snapped, causing Jaskier to flinch and drop the pot of ink he was holding in his hand. Jaskier cursed under his breath as he fell to his knees to pick up the shards of glass from the ground, staining his hands with dark ink in the process. Out of the corner of his eyes, Jaskier noticed Geralt leaving the room. Vesemir let out a heavy sigh as soon as the other witcher was out of the room.

“I’m sorry for spilling your ink,” Jaskier apologised, not daring to look up from the mess he had caused.

“Don’t worry about that, bard. No one uses these anyway. We’ve got plenty more where that one came from.” Jaskier rose, staring at his black hands miserably. Thankfully he had placed the lute on the table so that it remained untarnished. The paper he had picked up, on the other hand, was spoilt and could probably only be used as fire kindler. “Come on, bard. No point crying over spilt ink. I trust the others showed you to a room yesterday?”

“Yes, Ciri did. She showed me around the main areas yesterday. I wanted to thank you personally for giving me the benefit of the doubt and a roof over my head,” Jaskier added, feeling like the least he could do was voice his gratitude to the witcher.

“Ciri made compelling arguments yesterday,” Vesemir admitted begrudgingly, “you should be thanking her, not me.”

Jaskier swallowed thickly as he watched Vesemir fall in his chair with a pained groan. The bard was unsure where to take the conversation from there, but it felt rude to simply leave the room without being dismissed. So, Jaskier waited patiently for Vesemir to speak again and thankfully the witcher did not seem like one for beating around the bush.

“You have to understand that we aren’t used to humans in these parts. The last time… well, you’ve undoubtedly heard the myths about witchers. Our last encounter with humans didn’t end well,” Vesemir exhaled loudly before locking eyes with Jaskier, “we are merely looking out for our own. You understand that once I decide that you’re well enough to travel, I might not want to send you away and risk exposing the others to Nilfgaard’s wrath. I’m an old man, I’ve lived a full life, but I would be damned if I allowed anything to happen to the others. We’re a family, a pack. We look out for one another. Do we understand each other, bard?”

“Of course,” Jaskier replied in a serious tone, “they’re your family and you want to protect them. And I know I haven’t done anything to earn your trust, but I want to repeat that I have no intention of causing anyone any harm. Despite rocky beginnings, Ciri and Eskel especially have treated me with kindness, and I won’t forget that. And your hospitality, however reluctantly offered, saved me from spending another night in that forest.”

Those words made Vesemir chuckle, a reaction that took Jaskier by surprise.

“I like you, bard. You’re not scared of speaking your mind. I always appreciated honesty in people.”

“I have nothing to gain from lying. All I want is to go home. I don’t even care to find out how I got here anymore.”

Vesemir hummed pensively at those words and gave Jaskier a quick once-over. There was something reassuring about the old witcher. Vesemir radiated a wise and authoritarian aura which Jaskier associated with paternal figures. It was now painfully obvious to Jaskier that it was Vesemir who called the shots around the keep, and not Geralt like he initially thought. Vesemir clearly cared for the other witchers like they were his own children. Jaskier admired him for that. To an extent, he even understood the old witcher’s reluctance to let him go.

“What will happen to me if you decide that you can’t trust me with your secret?” Jaskier asked, trying not to sound as terrified as he felt. Vesemir raised an eyebrow as an amused smile crept on his lips.

“Don’t worry, bard. I won’t kill you, and no one will raise a hand on you as long as you’re staying here. I would find a use for you. If you’re a shit bard we could always make a stable boy out of you.”

Jaskier was not sure if the last comment was meant as a joke, but he laughed just in case. Vesemir’s amused smirk merely grew at how nervous Jaskier was acting. The older witcher rose from his seat and grabbed some blank paper from his desk which he then handed to Jaskier, who gladly accepted the offering. Vesemir’s eyes lingered on the lute for a while before he addressed Jaskier again.

“A generous gift. Eskel’s, I presume.”

“Yes. He said he got it as payment for saving a merchant’s life several years back,” Jaskier added. Vesemir snickered under his breath.

“Is that what he told you? Interesting.”

“I don’t understand,” Jaskier admitted, frowning in confusion at the older witcher’s words.

“Many years ago, I found Eskel near a swamp in Velen. He was dirty, famished and terrified. He had been abandoned there by his parents who fled the region to start a new life in the city. They did not want to burden themselves with an additional mouth to feed and abandoned their son to be eaten by wolves or drowners, whichever made it to the child first. Eskel didn’t have a crown to his name, but he did have this lute. As I recall, he was a decent lutenist back then.”

Jaskier could not believe what he was hearing and it took him several seconds to make sense of what Vesemir had told him. Why Eskel would willingly part with his precious instrument that was likely the only memory he had of his childhood baffled Jaskier.

“But… if that’s the case, then I can’t accept it. Why did he stop playing?” Jaskier asked before he could stop himself.

“None of us have been the same since the events of the Great Cleansing.” Jaskier wished he had kept his mouth shut. Vesemir’s eyes stared blankly at the lute, his fingers gently tracing the curve of the instrument’s body. The older witcher’s features softened considerably. “Eskel would never have parted with his lute, but he probably feels better knowing it will serve again. So I hope you’ll make good use of it, bard.”

“I will,” Jaskier promised.

888

“ _When a humble bard graced a ride along, with_ … something, something… _along came this song_.” Jaskier smiled as he wrote down the words before plucking at the chords of Eskel’s lute. It felt good holding an instrument in his hands once again. The wind was picking up and a chill shook Jaskier’s body, but he could not bring himself to care. He was so focused on his composing that he also failed to notice that someone was observing him from a bench nearby. Blissfully unaware of his spectator, Jaskier sang to his heart’s delight.

“ _When the white wolf fought…_ uhm… _when the white wolf fought…_ oh, bollocks! Alright, from the beginning. _When a humble bard graced a ride along, with_ something, something, _along came this song. When the white wolf fought…_ Argh! Okay, let’s work on the chorus instead. _Oh valley of plenty, oh valley of plenty, oh-oh-oh._ Ah, cock it!”

“You certainly use colourful language in your songs,” someone commented, pulling a startled yelp from Jaskier. His eyes frantically scanned his surroundings until they finally came to rest on none other than Eskel. Jaskier instantly relaxed at the sight.

“It’s the second time you interrupt my composing. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you’ve got an interest in music yourself,” said Jaskier with a cheeky smile. A deep-throated chuckle pushed past Eskel’s lips.

“Vesemir told you, huh?”

“He sure did. Why didn’t you say something?” Jaskier asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. Eskel merely shrugged nonplussed.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re much better at it than I could ever hope to be.”

“That’s just because I’ve got years of practice behind me. Maybe some time you can show me what you can do, and in return, I could teach you a thing or two,” Jaskier suggested, noticing the way Eskel’s face lit up at the prospect. Before the witcher had a chance to accept Jaskier’s offer a third voice, deep and stern, unexpectedly cut in.

“Eskel. A word.”

Jaskier followed the sound of the voice and his heart sped up when he saw Geralt standing several feet away, broad arms crossed over an equally broad chest. Jaskier could not take his eyes off Geralt. The white-haired witcher’s eyes locked with his, and Jaskier suddenly felt short of breath. His intriguing eyes the colour of a field of dandelions on a clear summer day… Eskel did not bother looking at Geralt, merely biting his lip as if refraining from saying something unpleasant. When Eskel noticed Jaskier’s worried glance, the witcher merely smiled encouragingly before rising and walking towards Geralt. The white-haired witcher’s jaw was tense, the vein in his temple throbbing with barely concealed anger. Jaskier wondered if Geralt’s ire had something to do with his presence here. The thought caused Jaskier’s stomach to flip like a landborn fish. He pretended to go back to his composing but tried to eavesdrop on the conversation, with no luck. Geralt and Eskel were whispering urgently, but too quietly for Jaskier to make out anything.

“ _At the edge of the world… oh valley of plenty…_ ”

Jaskier stole a glance at Geralt. Eskel had left, and the white-haired witcher was now staring at Jaskier with an impenetrable look in his eyes.

“Is my singing still as disappointing as a fillingless pie, Geralt?” Jaskier offered, feeling unexpectedly bold.

“Hm. It’s passable, I guess,” was all the witcher said before disappearing again. Jaskier smirked, a warm feeling spreading in his chest. Geralt was a tough nut to crack, but nothing Jaskier could not handle.

“Alright Jask, back to work. _When a humble bard graced a ride along…_ ”

TBC.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for how late this chapter is. 
> 
> I could say that I didn't update because of the whole Corona situation, uni commitments, several self-isolation periods and family commitments, but the truth was I suffered from the world's biggest writer's block and every time I tried to write the next chapter for this fic I got so frustrated with myself. SO I decided to take a break from it, but I am back now with chapter seven and motivation to see this fic to an end. 
> 
> I apologise for the long wait, but I hope the chapter won't disappoint. 
> 
> THANK YOU to all the supportive readers who left comments, kudos and subscribed during this three month hiatus. You guys give me life <3
> 
> Enjoy the chapter lovelies.

**_Previously_ **

_When Eskel noticed Jaskier’s worried glance, the witcher merely smiled encouragingly before rising and walking towards Geralt. The white-haired witcher’s jaw was tense, the vein in his temple throbbing with barely concealed anger. Jaskier wondered if Geralt’s ire had something to do with his presence here. The thought caused Jaskier’s stomach to flip like a landborn fish. He pretended to go back to his composing but tried to eavesdrop on the conversation, with no luck. Geralt and Eskel were whispering urgently, but too quietly for Jaskier to make out anything._

_“At the edge of the world… oh valley of plenty…”_

_Jaskier stole a glance at Geralt. Eskel had left, and the white-haired witcher was now staring at Jaskier with an impenetrable look in his eyes._

_“Is my singing still as disappointing as a fillingless pie, Geralt?” Jaskier offered, feeling unexpectedly bold._

_“Hm. It’s passable, I guess,” was all the witcher said before disappearing again._

OoO

When Geralt turned his back on the young bard, it felt like his entire body was on fire. He did not understand the sudden anger that took over when he saw Eskel and Jaskier together. They were not doing anything wrong, and yet something deep inside Geralt stirred at the sight of his brother’s knee touching Jaskier’s. Geralt and Eskel very rarely snapped at each other. It was not unheard of for Lambert to be irritable without reason, but Geralt and Eskel were older and much more level-headed than their high-strung brother. Guilt twisted Geralt’s stomach and he promised to find Eskel later to apologise for his behaviour, but it seemed like his brother had the same idea. As Geralt crossed the west hall towards the spiral staircase he noticed Eskel leaning casually against the wall near the fireplace, his eyes vacantly staring at the dancing flames in the hearth. Undoubtedly Eskel had heard Geralt approach, and yet he did not raise his eyes to look at him. Geralt’s throat tightened at that realisation. Eskel was not the type to get upset over a spat, must less the type to hold a grudge for longer than ten minutes.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt apologised, “I don’t know what came over me back there.”

“You don’t?” Eskel looked up as he addressed Geralt. “Let me take a stab in the dark here. For some unfathomable reason, you’re jealous that Jaskier and I get along.”

“That’s ridic-“

“Is it really?” Eskel did not have to raise his voice for Geralt to detect his brother’s impatience and accusatory tone. “Didn’t sound so ridiculous to me when you were warning me not to get too attached to the human. Last I checked I am old enough to decide for myself who I’m friendly with and who I wish to avoid.”

“Look, I said I was sorry,” Geralt snapped, his tone growing irritable, “I wasn’t expecting you two to be so close after only a couple of days.”

“Close? I’m helping the human feel at ease. Geralt come on, I can’t be the only one who’s been smelling the anxiety and fear on Jaskier from the minute we found him in that clearing. The stench is only starting to wear off thanks to _someone_ being nice to him. You’re welcome!”

“Hey, what’s all the bitching about?” a third voice, Lambert, interrupted their discussion. Geralt and Eskel both turned their attention to their younger brother strutting into the west hall carrying a small box which Geralt knew contained Lambert’s entire collection of gwent cards. Clearly the younger witcher had planned on working on a new deck when he walked in on Eskel and Geralt bickering like an old married couple.

“It’s nothi-“

“Geralt is jealous I made friends with the human,” Eskel said at the same time, cutting off Geralt mid-sentence. Lambert frowned at the statement, his nose scrunching up in visible disgust as his eyes met Geralt’s in a judging manner.

“Why would you even want to speak to _him_? Fair enough Eskel is desperate, but you?”

“Hey!”

“Oh for the love of… I am _not_ jealous that Eskel made friends with Jaskier. This whole situation is confusing and I’m tired, so I snapped. Big fucking deal. Lambert insults us on a daily basis, but when I do it _once_ -“

“Alright pretty boy, relax,” Lambert interrupted him as he placed his gwent box on the table before taking a seat on the least rickety bench in the room, “I know this little argument is between you and Eskel, but I have to admit that I don’t understand why he wants to be friends with that human either. We know nothing about him and I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something fishy about him. Just my view, of course.”

“You think everyone’s fishy, Lambert,” said Eskel as he stepped away from the wall and took a seat opposite the younger wolf, “and I agree, we don’t know much about him. However, I find that _talking_ to someone is a very effective way of getting to know them.”

“Perhaps, _but_ the human will want to know things about us too. That’s what I don’t like about the situation.” Lambert noticed Eskel reaching for the box on the table to snoop around for good cards he could sneakily steal, but the younger wolf quickly batted his brother’s hand away with a vicious snarl. “Hey, keep your sticky paws to yourself! If you want any of those, you’ll have to win them fair and square.”

“Which is it? With how much you cheat at this game, it’s hardly possible to win them fair and square.”

“You have no proof that I ever cheated!” Lambert retorted petulantly, and Geralt half expected the younger wolf to stick his tongue out at Eskel.

“Nobody’s that good at gwent!” argued Eskel.

“Just because you suck at it doesn’t mean others cheat.”

“Alright kids, that’s enough.” Geralt smirked as two pairs of amber eyes glared at him in response. “Look Eskel, I’m sorry for how I reacted. I’ve been on edge since Ciri’s injury and since Jaskier got here. Can you forgive me, brother?”

To Geralt’s relief, Eskel’s features softened ever so slightly as a small smile even tugged at the corner of his lips. The situation was clearly affecting everyone more than Geralt initially realised. Jaskier was still a mystery to them. Even though it seemed like the human had been willing enough to answer every single one of Vesemir’s questions, none of the witchers could be sure that Jaskier was not lying to them. The witchers’ last encounters with humans had not ended happily. Nobody could blame them for being suspicious.

“Don’t worry about it, brother,” Eskel reassured him softly, “I probably shouldn’t have taken your words to heart as much as I did. The events of the past days were all fifty kinds of weird, I think I haven’t had time to process them properly yet.”

“Tell me about it,” Lambert interjected without looking up from his cards, “only one who seems excited about the human staying with us all winter is Ciri. The girl has the survival instincts of a teaspoon.”

“She’s a child, Lambert,” Geralt said in Ciri’s defence, “she’s not left the valley much in all the time she’s been here. Bet she’s glad to see a new face.”

“She’s a blabbermouth. Better make sure she doesn’t reveal all our secrets to this human.”

“What are all these secrets you’re talking about? Only big secret is the location of Kaer Morhen and Ciri is hopeless at orientating herself in the wild, so I think we’re safe.” Eskel remarked, trying once again to get his hands on Lambert’s stash of cards only to have the younger wolf produce a low warning growl in his chest. “Besides we can always use _Axii_ on him and make him believe it was all just a dream.”

“How reliable is _Axii_ , though?”

“We’ll worry about that at the end of winter,” Geralt decided as he headed for the door, “if anyone needs me I’ll be looking after Roach.”

“Vesemir said he wanted to see you in the library,” Lambert added almost as an afterthought. Geralt willed his racing heart to calm down.

“And you couldn’t tell me that the minute you stepped into the room?”

“You were already biting Eskel’s head off, I didn’t want to be next,” Lambert explained, a cheeky grin on his face when his words managed to pull an irritated sigh from Geralt, “you know you love me.”

Geralt did not dignify Lambert with an answer as he headed for the library. As soon as he left the west hall, he could make out the sounds of furniture toppling over and Lambert’s angry growls. Geralt guessed that Eskel had tried to sneak off with one of Lambert’s better gwent cards when the latter was distracted, which ultimately resulted in the younger wolf pouncing on Eskel and tackling him to the ground. Geralt rolled his eyes as he pictured his two brothers play wrestling and play biting on the floor. Eskel was an incorrigible tease and his favourite past time was winding up Lambert. What made it worse was that Lambert always took the bait, which made Eskel’s job too easy and far too enjoyable. In all fairness, thought Geralt, Lambert gave back as good as he got.

It did not take Geralt long to reach the library. He stepped inside the room without knocking, knowing that Vesemir had likely heard his heavy footsteps and caught his scent by now. The older witcher was sat by the window in a comfortable chair staring out the window absent-mindedly. The book which lay open in his lap was being ignored in favour of the sight of the first snow falling over the keep. Winter had finally arrived. Soon, the passes would be impossible to cross and the witchers, Ciri and Jaskier would be stuck until spring. Geralt felt oddly anxious at the thought.

“I see Lambert gave you my message,” Vesemir remarked matter-of-factly in a poor attempt to break the uncomfortable silence between him and Geralt.

“It certainly seems that way.”

“What were you and Eskel arguing about in the courtyard?”

“How did you-“

“I saw you,” Vesemir explained before Geralt could finish his question, “I saw you calling Eskel and having what looked like a heated conversation. Did something happen while he and the human were peacefully talking between themselves?”

Geralt cleared his throat uneasily, unsure how to respond. Vesemir’s amber eyes came to rest on him and Geralt shifted uncomfortable under their scrutiny. There was no hiding the truth from the older witcher, no matter how hard Geralt tried. It was like Vesemir could see through the wolves and read them like open books.

“I just… Eskel was being very friendly to Jaskier…”

“And that’s a crime because?”

“Look Vesemir, I don’t know what came over me alright?” Geralt rubbed the back of his neck like he always did when a situation or conversation made him feel uncomfortable. Vesemir crooked one eyebrow at the reaction but did not press Geralt for an explanation, instead waiting patiently for the younger witcher to find his words. “I saw them out there, Jaskier was singing and offering to teach Eskel some chords on the lute and… Eskel looked so excited and I just… Vesemir, what the fuck is happening to me?”

The tingling sensation in his hands which had been plaguing Geralt for the past two days was back, stronger than ever, almost like he was holding his hands a touch too close to the fire – not close enough to burn, but close enough to feel the sting of the heat. Vesemir heaved a long sigh as he pushed himself out of the chair and placed the open book onto his desk. Geralt dared a glance at the page and saw the title written in elegant print.

_Soul Marks and Other Forgotten Knowledge_

Geralt’s brows furrowed in confusion and the concerned expression on Vesemir’s face did nothing to appease his anxiety at the situation.

“Calm down, boy. I know you’re agitated and confused right now, but I need you to keep an open mind about this. And remember, I might very well be wrong.”

Geralt could not recall a single time when Vesemir’s gut feeling had betrayed him.

“What’s your theory?” the younger witcher asked in a surprisingly steady voice.

“Well,” Vesemir paused for a brief moment to gather his thought and take a composing breath, “after Ciri told me about Jaskier’s seizure in the forest and Eskel mentioned the mark on the human’s chest, I was reminded of a conversation I had with Rennes a long time ago when we were both young witchers on the Path. Bearing in mind that was a good four hundred years ago, back when magic and magical beings were still openly roaming the Continent. Rennes mentioned a recent contract he took on. A young woman asked him to find her missing betrothed who had wandered off in the woods, at the time infested with all sorts of monsters, several days earlier and still hadn’t returned. Rennes told her he would go looking for her betrothed’s corpse for a fee, but the woman maintained her lover wasn’t dead. She insisted that she could feel he was still alive, although barely, and that he probably had broken his left arm and dislocated his right shoulder. She felt his pain just as vividly without suffering from the physical effects of a broken leg and dislocated shoulder herself.”

“Rennes didn’t think much of it at the time. He thought it was just crazy talk, words of a woman worried sick by her lover’s absence and holding onto any shimmer of hope that he may still be alive. It’s not unheard of for humans to feel phantom pains in stressful situations. Rennes still took on the contract and went to look for the man, expecting to find his body quickly and hopefully help the woman grieve the death of her betrothed and get back to her life. Imagine his surprise when he found the man in question alive, by a stream and hidden from view, his left leg broken and right shoulder dislocated. Alive, although barely. Just like the woman said.”

Geralt listened intently to Vesemir’s story, although he could not quite understand how this had anything to do with him, or the tingling sensation in his hands or Jaskier’s presence in the keep. Vesemir sighed as he flicked through the book on the desk before him.

“What happened next?” Geralt pressed impatiently, earning himself a pointed look from Vesemir.

“I’m getting there, boy. It so happens that the memory of Rennes brings back many emotions that I thought I had locked away forever.”

Geralt had the decency to look bashful as he lowered his eyes, giving Vesemir as much time as he needed to finish his story. Geralt did not know much about Vesemir’s youth, but the younger witcher remembered that when he and Eskel were still young boys training at the keep, Rennes and Vesemir seemed close. Really close, in fact. It was only once Geralt was older that he saw the bond between Rennes and Vesemir for what it really was. He had never been stupid enough to enquire about it, though. Vesemir held his privacy in high esteem and rarely ever spoke about his youth, not counting the nights where he and his pups drank themselves stupid and shared stories around the fire.

“Rennes helped the man up and carried him back to his betrothed. He didn’t quite understand how the man had not been attacked by monsters, but more importantly Rennes could not believe that the woman had been right about the injuries. The injured man was in too much pain to talk, never mind answer any questions Rennes might have for him. So he waited until he was back with the woman to get answers. When Rennes asked her how she could possibly have known about her betrothed’s wounds, she replied saying that they were soulmates and their bond ran deep. _Very_ deep. To prove her point, the woman showed Rennes a mark on her shoulder, the first place where her betrothed had touched her when they met.”

Geralt let the story sink in, trying to wrap his head around the load of information Vesemir had just given him. He had heard of soulmates, of course. In stories, love ballads and poems. Geralt had never expected them to be _real_. His confused frown deepened as Geralt met Vesemir’s eyes. The older witcher pursed his lips and Geralt kept expecting him to admit that all of this was just an elaborate joke.

“As nice as this story is, how does it relate to our situation?” Geralt asked, his voice smaller than he expected. 

“Oh Geralt, don’t make me draw you a picture,” Vesemir pushed the book towards Geralt and rotated it so the younger witcher did not have to read it upside down, “soulmates are rare, but they happen. They’re more likely to occur when one partner has magical abilities, but they can happen between humans too. They’re rarer in humans because of the shorter lifespan. As a witcher, you were blessed, or cursed, with a long life and as such, you were more likely to be alive when your soulmate was born.”

“Soulmates… Vesemir, you can’t possibly believe in such fantasies?”

Geralt avoided Vesemir’s eyes in favour of staring at his hands. The stinging sensation had not gone away, but it had not got any worse. Geralt flipped his hands over, almost as if he suddenly expected to see marks similar to the one Jaskier sported on his chest to appear. Vesemir noticed the action and chose that moment to speak again, his voice taking a gentle tone.

“The way I understand it, only one person receives a mark when soulmates first meet. Usually the one who’s touched first. In your case, you would’ve been the first to touch Jaskier when you tackled him to the ground in that cave. Hence why he now has a mark on his chest where your paws were.”

“But why did it only appear when we were on the trail back to the keep?” Geralt questioned. He wanted to find something, _anything_ , that would prove Vesemir wrong and make a whole in his argument. Soulmates _were. not. real._ Simple as.

“I’ve given this some thought too. My theory is that the magic got confused by the fact that you were in a wolf shape. As soon as you regained your human form it caught on and was probably more intense because neither Jaskier nor you were prepared for it. How did you feel when you shifted back?” Vesemir asked with genuine curiosity.

“I can’t really remember,” Geralt lied.

“Come on boy, think harder!”

Geralt worried his bottom lip as he tried to regain the feeling in his hands by wiggling his fingers. It gave him something to do while he thought back to two nights ago when he shifted from his wolf form back to his human one.

“I… I guess I felt a bit out of breath. My head was spinning, which it used to do the first couple of times I shifted into my wolf form but with the years the headaches after my transformations stopped. I felt a bit nauseous…”

“You must’ve felt the bond catch on too, only less intensely. Jaskier was literally branded with a mark, which explains why he was in so much pain,” Vesemir groaned in frustration as he rubbed his forehead to soothe the migraine he had coming on, “Geralt, if we’re right about this soulmate and soul bond situation, then we have a big problem. _You_ may have a big problem.”

“A problem? Why would there be a problem? I could just igno-“

“No, that’s the problem. This _can’t_ be ignored,” Vesemir erupted, his tone growing serious, “Soul bonds cannot be ignored. If they are, it could have grave consequences. It starts with mild physical aggravations, like the tingling in your hands for example, which can then develop and spread to the whole body. How exactly do you expect to keep on top of your training if you can’t pick up a sword in two weeks’ time? If the soul bond is not acknowledged or confirmed, the bond will assume that one of the soulmates has passed, which means that grief will start settling in. You and Jaskier could fall into a deep state of depression from which there’s no return. You might survive it at first because of the witcher mutagens, but the human won’t be so lucky.”

“That’s too bad for him,” Geralt said, although his heart clenched in his chest and the feeling in his hands intensified as he spoke the words.

“Don’t take on those airs, boy, you’re not fooling anyone. Geralt, don’t you understand? If Jaskier dies, that will be the last straw for you. Your bond, if one is present, will end up killing you too. You’ll die more slowly, but you’ll meet the same end all the same.”

There was an urgency to Vesemir’s voice that Geralt had not heard in a long time. The expression on the older witcher’s face was impenetrable, but his eyes betrayed his worry and panic at the thought of anything happening to any member of his pack. Geralt’s stomach lurched at the sight of his mentor so disraught.

“Surely if the human and I are true soulmates, then we should be attracted to one another, not…”

Geralt did not know how to end this sentence. He was not repulsed by Jaskier, far from it. The human was handsome by Geralt’s standards, there was no denying that, but he was a _human_ and humans had been told to hate magical beings ever since the events of the Great Cleansing. Jaskier could not possibly feel anything but disdain, or at the very least wary, of witchers. The human’s presence in the keep was a bitter reminder of how many lives were lost the day Kaer Morhen was attacked. And yet, Jaskier was admittedly not like the humans Geralt had met in his lifetime. Jaskier was warm, friendly, _kind_ from what Geralt had seen. He did not seem the type to attack the witchers in their sleep to catch them off guard. In fact, Jaskier did not look like he had touched a sword in his life.

“Tell me, Geralt. How did it make you feel to see Eskel so close to the human?”

Geralt refused to answer. He could not pinpoint which emotion had been strongest, and judging by the knowing look on Vesemir’s face, he did not have to. The older witcher knew the answer to his own question.

“Fuck!”

“Indeed,” Vesemir concurred.

“So, what do we do now?” Geralt asked in a resigned tone.

“For the moment, nothing. I’ll observe the situation for a couple of days, read more about the topic and make sure that we’re actually dealing with a soul bond before alarming the others. In the meantime, I want you to spend as much time as you can with Jaskier. Do you think you can do that?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You do. You could just wait until the end of winter and if the human doesn’t die, then it wasn’t a soul bond. If he does, then we’ll be left with very little time to find a way to save you. Something tells me you don’t want any harm to come to Jaskier, though.”

Geralt’s hands balled into fists as he bit hard on his teeth to stop himself from growling at the thought of Jaskier dying. Not only dying but dying because of _him_. Geralt could not remember the last time he had felt so confused about a person’s existence. He perceived the human’s presence in the keep as a great annoyance, yet the thought of anything befalling Jaskier was enough to sent Geralt into a blood rage.

“Fine. I’ll spend time with the bard.”

“Good,” said Vesemir, rewarding Geralt’s cooperation with a rare smile, “Should a soul bond be present, I will get in touch with the Lodge and the Brotherhood to see if anything can be done to break it. It might be very difficult, but not necessarily impossible. Until we’re sure, we don’t breathe a word of this to the others. Understood?”

“Yeah. Understood.”

Geralt did not join them for dinner that evening. When Ciri checked on him later that night before she headed to bed, Geralt pretended he was asleep so he would not have to speak to her. Vesemir’s words kept replaying in his mind and kept him awake most of the night. When Geralt was convinced that sleep would forsake him, he got out of bed and picked up the book that Vesemir had lent him. Amber eyes stared at it vacantly for longer than Geralt cared to admit. He was both intrigued about the topic and terrified of what information he might find within its pages. _Magical Beings in the Old World_. Geralt swallowed thickly, inhaled deeply to calm his racing heart, and eventually mustered the courage to open the book and began reading.

_Chapter Five: Soulmates and Soul Bonds_

TBC.


End file.
